J. Michael Ward

PHP Developer, Board Game Aficianado, and Donut Snob


A Poem From a Phone

A poem from a phone

A forum of frantically fingered phrases

Partially predicted, potentially purged

Before my fervent fans, all four,

Find fit to fault me for poor form


I dedicate this shoebox
To the goldfish of the world
And the sound of a million toilets flushing

Semper Fi

City Minions

City minions walk to work
Wearing white winter fur,
Hair up to here & sheer pantyhose.
Prosthetic nose, caked makeup,
Bose stereo headphones,
And a never-ending sense that it’s all gonna end
Since underpaid trainees in foreign lands do it better
(Not blondes or brunettes, or whatever that clever bumper-stuck statement infers).
Four years have passed since the last layoffs let loose,
Not long is left now til they reset the noose.

*Note: I wrote and published this elsewhere online in 2006.


When I am withered, old, and gray,
I will take a letter addressed to me
written by My Younger Self
out from a drawer.

The envelope reads, “Do not open until 2040!”

I will not remember the importance of this date.

(There is none)

Instead, I’ll ponder my age


and think about the year
this letter was written


Optimism was in short order.

In 2040, My Future Self will reveal a Sharpie from my pocket
or another brand of marking instrument, should Sharpie have merged or closed for business

(They will not have)

My Future Self will remove the cap
strike a clean line through the date on the envelope
and ink a new date in pre-elderly chicken scratch

Then I will smile,
and place the letter back in the drawer.

“Do not open until 2040! 2140!”


I assure you, this is a poem
Who’s to say it isn’t?