I
There is a little car,
it can get us pretty far,
300+ miles, to not be exact,
somehow that thing,
it stays in tact.
II
The car's now parked next
to the lawn,
that's pretty,
but half overgrown,
unlike the piles of itchy hand-me-downs.
We still have nothing of our own.
III
I close my eyes, imagine
her dressed in lilacs
and daffodils,
I awaken, remembering
her legs are prickly,
and bare.
With scratches,
from excessive irritations.
IV
Her dress is covered in lilacs
and daffodils,
she is somewhere, dreaming,
she is anywhere but here.
She has her own footstool.
She has her own name.
V
Her face is painted pale,
faded blue, her teeth-
red bricks with bloody
mortar.
No one ever visits her.
Moldy footprints on the step,
-on their way out.
Well, now, here-
We are.
Home, crap, home.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
-
there ain't no other place like you to roam. where I dug in my heels and said "No, I won't come home!" Dancing in the warb...
-
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but...
-
motionless sap. ogling your shadow, you have much thinking to do. has the potassium kicked you in the arse yet-and got you going? you a...
-
nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
-
The Anchor for Joel When love embarks, with its generating propellers slicing through the interminable oceans of imperfection that are, for ...
-
The Opera The eyes of the firing-squad are aimed with lashed cross-hairs for now we, the chorus, all look like oiled up black ducks in a ro...
-
I thought it would be fitting to do an original of mine, but one of it's earlier drafts. I have recently reworked this poem so it includ...
-
There is something spooky about me. I am certain of it. Or else why does the thought of you dying for me, somehow slightly perk me up. Bette...
-
At age 25 for Sir John Donne Down went San Felipe. Crimson and pale, rippling, clinging to it's mist. Oh, how that flagship hurled itsel...
-
in August for John Keats I didn't die unrequited. I took a wife in August. My wife was wearing silky white shoulders holding out her bon...
Extremely vivid descriptions here. I've noticed that is a strength of yours in your writing. I envy you for that, since description is not one of my strong suits.
ReplyDeleteCheers.
I love this, Amy...very emotional, love the separation and the tones in each part... <3
ReplyDelete