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frank-sterncrestPoems
On my way to the attic, each step creaks protesting.             I’ve worn this path smooth. I reach the landing and turn. You sit there on top of a stack of boxes             easy-access composed, legs swinging insouciantly I brush off the light layer of dust, open you up to the dark room and take out a golden trophy. After reminiscing, I return it. You put your clothes back on; I fold you shut and walk away. You don’t bother taping your seams you never did. What we do isn’t pretty. We aren’t two starlings in our own murmuration; we are a ****** of crows. Our dance is getting away with felonies.             Take it from a jail bird                         a trophy is no occupation. You watched as I was polished and shelved, captive after a year of looking for a champion. She had me cast at the start of that long year well before she clinched her title. I was touted around, then passed on. She never dusts me off, dear. That is why I smudge your sheen I have no shimmer left myself. That is why you stay you seek the heft of my cast-iron company, the weight we have borne six years without touch sixty ****** crime dramas six hundred batches of half-baked cookies six thousand nights in. You are my memorabilia. I just don’t want your dust to settle as mine has. I want you to dance, gilded, on the sky. On my way to the basement, each step squeaks inviting.             I’ve worn this path smooth. I reach the foot. Brothers greet, glasses clink, plumes build, couches sink. The ceiling dances with golden trophies all with your composure gleaming legs swinging.
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Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
Luster
On my way to the attic, each step creaks protesting.             I’ve worn this path smooth. I reach the landing and turn. You sit there on top of a stack of boxes             easy-access composed, legs swinging insouciantly I brush off the light layer of dust, open you up to the dark room and take out a golden trophy. After reminiscing, I return it. You put your clothes back on; I fold you shut and walk away. You don’t bother taping your seams you never did. What we do isn’t pretty. We aren’t two starlings in our own murmuration; we are a ****** of crows. Our dance is getting away with felonies.             Take it from a jail bird                         a trophy is no occupation. You watched as I was polished and shelved, captive after a year of looking for a champion. She had me cast at the start of that long year well before she clinched her title. I was touted around, then passed on. She never dusts me off, dear. That is why I smudge your sheen I have no shimmer left myself. That is why you stay you seek the heft of my cast-iron company, the weight we have borne six years without touch sixty ****** crime dramas six hundred batches of half-baked cookies six thousand nights in. You are my memorabilia. I just don’t want your dust to settle as mine has. I want you to dance, gilded, on the sky. On my way to the basement, each step squeaks inviting.             I’ve worn this path smooth. I reach the foot. Brothers greet, glasses clink, plumes build, couches sink. The ceiling dances with golden trophies all with your composure gleaming legs swinging.
frank-sterncrest
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frank-sterncrest
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
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