These are all just words –
black type splashed across newsprint –
discarded, left for the birds
pecked at and tossed on whims.
Who will remember tomorrow,
or care, no suffering for these sins,
impossible to keep up with the hits and misses,
this news-hungry world, manufactured
and insincere as bitter kisses.
On my walk to work one morning this week, I passed a folded newspaper discarded in the street. The three words I could make out from a headline were “words,” “whims,” and “misses.” I think. Anyway, I was starved for prompts so used that as my inspiration.