I can't hear the cars,
but I can see them;
the rush of tiny sun-reflections moving south, towards the suburbs.
I can't hear the footsteps,
old men in hand with little boys--
each crunching the crunchiest leaf,
and then the next crunchiest,
and then the next--
The postman;
the couch;
the Sunday afternoon.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 12:21 PM UTC
I can't hear the cars,
but I can see them;
the rush of tiny sun-reflections moving south, towards the suburbs.
I can't hear the footsteps,
old men in hand with little boys--
each crunching the crunchiest leaf,
and then the next crunchiest,
and then the next--
The postman;
the couch;
the Sunday afternoon.
When I went to school in Chattanooga, I spent most of my time anxious. I wrote this trying to conjure some comfort and relaxation. I didn't work. Soon, I left that city to be near someone I loved.
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