I’m reading a poetry book beginning at the
end of it. but, trust me, I’m not a half wit.

What! You say that sounds odd. I have to agree,
trying to be an objective critic of me.

But hear me out and you might see the method
in my oddness is far from insanity.

I began by reading the book from the start,
but felt the poems had no heart.

So to in an attempt to put my dislike in the past,
I thought maybe the best were saved for last.

Now maybe that was crazy and my thinking was
hazy.

But like a crescendo, and I write this with no
innuendo, the poems at the ending were
better, more heartrending and mind bending.

Bob Boyd