Witt Wittmann

Cold

A cold February wind Crawls up my leg And rattles my knees A preacher fumbles Over the verses That I know by heart Why doesn’t he know them? Quaking, I sit Watching two unknown

A New Broom

I bought a new broom today And swept the cobwebs down, A thick accumulation of dregs, A mass of tangles and smut. I whisked a conglomeration of dust That forever stuck-inaccessible. Lifted the rug