The gold touches the tops of the trees in atlanta
Pekerson park smells like
Elementary school breakfast
Nostalgia
steamed in a bag
My tire is flat
Again
The guy says you
Can’t plug a hole
On the outside
can you do it from the inside?
I don’t know much about rubber
but I know I’ve bounced back
Enough to feel like
My blood could just be air
I am sure though
That’s not true
Because I can feel it thicken
Early in the morning
In the crisp mundanity
Of finding honeysuckle
& blackberries crawling
Along shady fences
In the Atlanta south
the gold is still just touching the tops of the trees