Saturday Bad Poetry Hour

Jobless

I keep my ironed business face
in the old yellow travel case
under the stairs.

I lost the key.

My mirror stares
back at me
dressed in morning nudity.

----

In Memory

The woman has been killed.
Her eyes do not see.
Her body has been tilled.
It feeds a rattle tree.

And merrily we dance
around the rattle tree.
And when we get a chance
we tell her she is free.

----

This one is not about Hillary Clinton, by the way.

Hilary

I met her in the swimming pool.
I cannot stand the crowd.
But Hilary was different
and seemed to say so, loud.

Her skin was silvery and cool,
her swimming like a dream.
Her crawling style was ancient
but made the waters stream.

Her eyes were deep and green as sea.
I never saw them blink.
Yes, Hilary was different
but how, I could not think.

Until at last it came to me
and I saw what I had missed.
These facts made it evident
that Hilary was a fish.