Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2018
it was the kind of winter that sits in your bones
the red house with the yellow door on the corner had too many holes
nobody spoke except to sigh and watch their breath float away
and the markets were bad, and the oil was expensive
the liquor flowed freely even though the bills were unpaid
they just hung over our heads, those silent monsters always present
but sprawled together on that grey couch we were at peace
and even if things weren't great, we made them good
Daniel Kenneth
Written by
Daniel Kenneth  Boston
Please log in to view and add comments on poems