Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2023
At Volta Lake
we've left the stench
of human love
on breeze and bench
(me and my sweet
sour saucy *****)

where faces up
the mountain man
who's natively
American,
and not, in fact,
an Indian.
Written by
Beaver Meadow
  210
   The Poet's Progress
Please log in to view and add comments on poems