A poetess thought herself a mint
For a head at poetry book cover,
Mint rising above wayside grass.
Her modest self is mere versifier.
Mint does no poems, only creep
And smell nice for us off poems
And in the greenest of bored teas.
We do feel creepy at most times
On dank balconies watching men
Going about their milk and eggs
Every other morning purposively.
They obtrude on a consciousness
As if they are mint for noon tea.
Like mint they bend on our grass
Their shadows cover our existence.