Notes, instructions, etc.,
ring in the wee hours,
or while ill or forgotten,
robotic programming
for doing the hokey-pokey
Jackson Pollack-like.
There is no number one.
The only way he knew it’s got
to be a dance was finding
his cat covered in grits.
This makes me feel better.
That’s part of the mystery.
(A response to a friend’s Facebook post. Submitted by Howie Good)
Verbatim Poetry 