Some summers,
My poem is a makeshift home,
It’s cheap tarpaulin hanging by two sticks,
You won’t notice it,
It’s barely even seen,
Let alone stand out,
There are no commuters,
No visitors,
My poem is a makeshift home,
It has unfamiliar cookware resting on its jagged platform,
Sometimes the plastic leaks of sunlight,
And I drown in its shallow puddles,
It’s mostly worn out letters with fatigued arms,
Wrongly fit pieces of a puzzle,
Some summers,
My poem is a makeshift home,
Shabby,
Severed,
Passable,
Home.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 3:29 PM UTC
Some summers,
My poem is a makeshift home,
It’s cheap tarpaulin hanging by two sticks,
You won’t notice it,
It’s barely even seen,
Let alone stand out,
There are no commuters,
No visitors,
My poem is a makeshift home,
It has unfamiliar cookware resting on its jagged platform,
Sometimes the plastic leaks of sunlight,
And I drown in its shallow puddles,
It’s mostly worn out letters with fatigued arms,
Wrongly fit pieces of a puzzle,
Some summers,
My poem is a makeshift home,
Shabby,
Severed,
Passable,
Home.
Request permission to use this poem