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sandra wyllie Jun 2023
as she came in
in a gust of wind
blowing through
my window
dancing curtains
flirting as a butterfly
not certain
she'd settle
a rose petal
falling off
the horizon
a crimson leaf
smuggled in a breeze
a sharpened reef
submerged in the sea
I blinked yesterday
a crashing wave
is now my slave
sandra wyllie Jun 2023
in
to clock.
Head down
to the dock.

Punch
the button
enter the lift.
Punch the D
and make it swift.

Punch
the papers.
Load the trucks.
Catch the vapors.
This job *****!

Punch
Drunk.
He smells
just like a skunk.
I work with
all the lunks!

Punch
out.
Shout Hooray!

Punch
Happy!
The end of
another day!
sandra wyllie May 2023
her day in the shady, hot air
under the turquoise umbrella
slouched in a folding chair
singing capella

sipping cherry wine
in a long-stemmed glass
jotting down a line
as a bee flies pass

neighbor's lawn can stand a trim
the grass is high as a mountain
kids again are screaming at him
and robins drinking from the fountain

branches brushing the deck
squirrel’s fighting over the bird seed
everything's in check
at lower speed
sandra wyllie May 2023
curls, as the cat. Swirls of hair
dusting the chairs,
the lamps and the bureaus.
The wooden stairs
are her heroes, carpeted
in golden honey brown. She’ll
be flying out of town.

She's shedding
light as fireflies
dancing in the night. Sparkling
as diamond rings. Fluttering
her arms like butterfly wings.

She's shedding
skin, the snake. This reptile
suffocates. Coiled up, hissing
in the grass. She has to break
this mold/pass from
the python's hold.

She’s shedding
tears as dewdrops
rolling off a leaf, high up
in the trees. She’ll water the lilacs
as she weeps. The perfume sweeps
across the rows of painted marigolds.
sandra wyllie May 2023
as a painted wooden toy
a pup attached to a string
pulled in the backyard
through blooming gardens in spring
pulled so hard
till I broke my springs
and my flakes chipped off
could no longer ping
those buttered, golden hands
lost their cling
that pretty, soft voice
doesn’t whistle or sing
de’mode’
just something he’d fling
in the back of his closet
another plaything
sandra wyllie May 2023
can't be made of chalk. It fades
as men walk over it. It blends
with the ground. So, the white
turns brown.

This line of mine
can't be drawn with sticks. The men
kick them to the side. And roll in
just like the tide, drowning me
with their energy.

This line of mine
can't be built with bricks. It make
a wall a mountain tall. So, no man
can climb at all.

This line of mine
I frame in elastic. Not rigid,
but plastic. So, I can
stretch it out or pull it back. It can
expand or contract. Not set in
stone. But sewn in my
undergarments. So, men can leave
no comments.
sandra wyllie May 2023
eat so many red apples?
How can they hang on?
His hunger's waned.
He kicks the fruit that fall.
They grow soft and stained,
filled of holes from worms that crawl.

How can a man
fill his bag of apples till it breaks?
Leave the tree half empty
from all the apples he takes.
There's more on the ground
and less on his plate.
His eyes big as mountains.
But his belly plump and sate.
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