a poem about nothing,
written by nobody,
after the rain, a bit muddy,
and a bit sleepy,
and a bit hippie,
just - the sounds and words,
flying above, like birds,
crawling, like turtles, old,
and, as some ice cream, cold,
airy as some wind,
blowing, as a fan,
well, that is a poem,
of which you cannot be a fan.
I saw as a young man
on the sidewalk, ran.
Ivan Petryshyn