Ames Progressive

There once was a hand on an arm
on the shoulder of a man on a farm
that, milking an udder
for milk for butter,
made bread taste better when warm.

There was a thin woman who felt
that the face behind which she dwelt
was not her real face
and had it replaced
by the face of Somebody Else.

There once was a physical brain
that felt metaphysical pain
and said, “I am mind.
Nothing else of my kind
exists. That much is plain.”

There was a meth addict in Boone
in the midst of his third sleepless noon.
He remembered to eat
and leapt to his feet
but then he got lost in his room.

I once had a paranoid thought
that I tried to ignore but could not.
It lingered and strayed
and became a parade
of thoughts about thoughts about thoughts.