This poem found me as I sat and stared at the worn tiles of the bathroom floor. Inspiration appears at its own beckoning; it makes no appointments, consults no one if the time is convenient.

And so I send it off on a day not designated for a Cloudburst Poem, but since nothing nudged the poet on that day designated for publishing, better late than never.

Alliteration rears its head in this eight-line arrangement with an imperfect ABAB rhyme scheme.

The scoop on Cloudburst is on its own, abandoned site, including why the poems aren’t online and how you can get them anyway.

What do you think?

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