Broken toes over a bridge,
going further towards unwanted swamps from days old rain.
A dog, two dogs, three dogs.
An old man, young love, sisterhood.
Broken shots; a month of dead frames held together by cheap staples.
Running circles, thinking, am I a chew toy?
Take a second to smile, mama and baby boy, dancing on a ramp are starring.
Bliss, shining through car speaker, breaking down the old neighborhood’s ears.
With a collection in my shirt pocket, stuffed in a red box.
Now the words are placed in one man’s thoughts and the significance is procreating.
No comments:
Post a Comment