Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mar 2018
Off-brand chips and bean soup, again
Someone told me the skies here are blue
Today my tea is grey. The commute
Roars quiet, like an ostrich
Like a gas top and saucepan.

I taste red beans on my tongue
That I brought from my mother's house
Back home I have a chicken. My wife
My three daughters, my son
The train is red, red and white

I will call them again, tonight.
My knuckles are dry. My shoes are clean
Lint-rolled suit, crisp tie
Sharp and clean and white shirt
White and my red, red beans.
Grace
Written by
Grace
210
   Keith Wilson
Please log in to view and add comments on poems