"towels" poems
Thank you ~
for a life not to trade
blessings, in spades
tight spaces
behind laundry doors
packed closets
and open drawers
gator tails, tarnished brass
cracks in kitchen sliding glass
wet towels, withering plants
foundation filled
with carpenter ants
buckets piled with
shoes and tags
village clothes
and saddlebags
peeling paint
and broken walls
****** seats
in bathroom stalls
clogged pantry
frigid rooms
table scribe
and carbon fumes
comfort capsules
empty tanks
broken limbs
from children’s pranks
**** finger
double tongue
long goodbyes
and sidewalk dung
cluster flies
chavie’ clique
accompanying
the hypocrite
cracked back
and hidden smiles
chalk on board
with mr miles
atomic wedgies
closing doors
wrotten eggs
and open sores
jaw jack
nasty folk
dinner calls
for pig in poke
penny pinchers
double dip
yellow mouth
and silver tip
brown nosers
thick red tape
paper cuts
and pimple nape
gallivants
so out of norm
the joy of life…
in basic form
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
We always know where our towels are so we can help each other out
‘Cause we protect each other without ever a doubt
Even when one swears the other has puddin’ in their head
We still trust each other, both with guiding and being led
Whenever you have a Hat-and-or-Wig Party, I’ll be there
Because while three’s company, us two is a constant pair
I’ll be the first to reward you with five minutes of uninterrupted eye contact
Because always supporting each other is our unwritten contract
I’ll sit and watch a movie with you, even if it’s Sweded
Because just hanging out with you is all that is needed
Even if all we did in a day was roll in ze hay
I know that we would still have fun anyway
Whether anyone says we were brought together by fate, destiny… or a horse
All that matters is that we are forever family on the same course
Even if there’s no meteoroid, severe loss of blood or death,
We’re there to help each other ‘til our last breath
We read one another’s thoughts and understand code words like oi
Which means we ‘get’ each other more than any girl or boy
I hope we both have enough shoes to last us a lifetime
So we have all the time we need to quote movies and rhyme
I’ll only ask you to hold my sweet potato pie; you’ll never have to wear it
We are always each other’s partner and we’ll never have to split
I would cross The Wall anytime if it could help somehow
Because I would do anything for you that possibility could allow
If you were eating junk and watching ******* I wouldn’t come out and pound you
I would sit down and join you, and just claim I had the flu
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
he drank wine all night of the
28th, and he kept thinking of her:
the way she walked and talked and loved
the way she told him things that seemed true
but were not, and he knew the color of each
of her dresses
and her shoes-he knew the stock and curve of
each heel
as well as the leg shaped by it.
and she was out again and whe he came home,and
she'd come back with that special stink again,
and she did
she came in at 3 a.m in the morning
filthy like a dung eating swine
and
he took out a butchers knife
and she screamed
backing into the roominghouse wall
still pretty somehow
in spite of love's reek
and he finished the glass of wine.
that yellow dress
his favorite
and she screamed again.
and he took up the knife
and unhooked his belt
and tore away the cloth before her
and cut off his *****
and carried them in his hands
like apricots
and flushed them down the
toilet bowl
and she kept screaming
as the room became red
GOD O GOD!
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
and he sat there holding 3 towels
between his legs
no caring now wether she lft or
stayed
wore yellow or green or
anything at all.
and one hand holding and one hand
lifting he poured
another wine
32.1k
Its my body, my money, its up to me what I do with it.
But everyone else is wearing it.
I cant help the way I feel.
Blonde
Red
Orange
Brown
Purple
DMs purple with pink laces
school skirt altered in the textile lab 3" shorter
hormones racing, zipping, vibrating, fizzing till the top pops
stairs made for stomping and storming
cackling laughter crackling down the telephone wire
clothes left on the bedroom floor abandoned for a girl crisis.
You cant read my mind
read my lips
read my body
read my journal sandwiched between the midriff covering cottons gran bought for Christmas and the skimpy lace thong I'd be grounded for buying
Mother's mattress sanitary towels tossed aside
for shamefully purchased tampons
instructions included
and time has passed
and masks have fallen
and I find you there in the muck and the mire
and dust you off
until
I see your face - all mothers lipstick and glittering pink eye shadow
and the smile that stores secrets in a treasure chest.
Your legs shake like Bambi's but you get to your feet
and nestle yourself into me warmly, strongly until you fall right into me
and you run and you run and you run and you run and you run
right through my veins
giggles throbbing through my pulse
pajama parties and homemade perfume radiating in my eyes
and there you are
and there I am.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
There is something magical
in the whirring
of a midday laundromat.
A cessation of pride,
maybe.
People all dressed in sweatpants
the air full of detergent smell
and the sound of coins clicking
against great tumblers
as they go round
and round
and round
and round...
The people smile back,
no use pretending superiority here.
Whistlers twitter on, folding towels and socks into neat, organized piles.
The children are well behaved,
their hands full of potato chips
given by their parents as a pittance for their patience.
The patient patrons
ponder on,
their empty hands crumpling receipts.
This, with the crunching of chips
and the distant whistle
over the percussion of clicking
coins clattering
in a dryer
compose an unintentional opera,
an ode to humility.
Humility's honorable honesty heals humanity's hubris.
Noisy trucks pass outside the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows,
Where the hot air wreaks its violence
and men make their ways
in spite.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
.
By open window
She towels herself with me
Moon cries in bathtub
.
Aug 19, 2021
Aug 19, 2021 at 9:37 PM UTC
Yellow is
a high-minded mood
the extravagance of sunlight
to be touched--
before long
by colors of play
____________
It is of hair
tendering golden sun
brown pennies for lemonade
____________
Yellow is
bumping into the screaming end
of a lit
cigarette
_____________
Yellow is
dripping from the eaves
onto an empty soup can
_____________
It is
spindling sparrow song
from highest perch on roof
his pitch can aspire
_____________
Yellow is
in rattled doorknob
an infant's sweet
voice wanting – in
Reciting menu
above mattress
edges into sleep
two dark eyes
plead
for yellow
waking
Mother into morning--
“juice.... eggs”
Yellow ____
is
opening a car door
at the shore's
unmistakable!
Smells of life
warmth and breeze
touching strings
those kites
of sense
harmonics
above the tone
octaves of excitement
to see to hear to touch to taste
to know
again –
the ocean of my mother
as she calms the waves,
ignores the pouts of us
with stuff to lug out to the beach
the towels, pails and shovels
Picnic basket, cooler
lotion, comic books, her magazines
Mom looks out
She is a good swimmer
Her glasses, dark
Preside
reflecting beauty –
“Take your sister's hand.”
Yellow are the squeals
Feet thrashing sand
of cannot wait
May 22, 2018
May 22, 2018 at 10:06 PM UTC
The feds are making headway
(generously passing out their treats!)
*while the whistle blower
and his boon companion
hit the 22nd floor*
fiscal plans
are tidily falling into place
and the suits are all busy
chasing their dimes
dancing around the spire
full of wine and cheer
(seems the demand side imbalance
has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!)
they’re all studying their bollinger bands
MACD's, and treasuries
just like the good old days
santali would say
while capitol hill is busy
with its own pleasantries;
*repatriate that currency
hold those rates
bring the boys back home!*
the affirmations are robust
and filled with glee!
conspiracy thinkers
are busy in their own back rooms
initiating the trade
and building their counter claims
as pork bellies
and soybeans
continue to soar
(looks like eddy and the margin men
are at it again!)
what happened to that bear masquerade anyways?
they really were a band of brothers
colourful clowns
with big painted smiles
ready to lead in any parade
but they met with the resistance
a horned wall
satan’s horsemen riding high
with bags hung heavy
under dark squinting eyes
are we near an end?
the undertakers will say
it's only a blink of an eye
to the thin red line
where risk takers and front men
all jump ship
debt addiction is crippling
and hell breaks loose
when entitlements are out
and towels are thrown in
there’s a center piece here
those pugnacious statesmen
with invigorating tales
have had their place
time to clip them at the limbs
and pull the punch from the bowl
(sobriety has its merits you know!)
let’s head to the commission
and throw darts to the board ~
seems the moral blueprints are fading
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
The Yorkshire Rose, elegantly perched on the bridge
This was not London, or the palace
nor Manchester, where Mancurians are free
nor Blackpool, where the beach swallows
Glasses, towels, mussels clinging to rocks
The Yorkshire rose, drawn upon the bridge
Bullet trains, leading distances
Almost unfathomable in this very spot
Harrogate, bath water
Spilling onto the street in natural sulphuric geysers
Burning
The Yorkshire Rose, fleeting in memory
In ghosts of the abbey nearby
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
It's funny what you do to me, and I know funny.
I go up on stage and tell ****** jokes for a living,
and look super bad *** while doing it.
But now you've got my *** terrified. Paranoid to breathe because I'm afraid it will be my last
and you won't be there to see it.
Yes, it's cliche. But you do have me listening to love songs, you do have me putting on make up,
you do have me running up mountains so I can have a body you can enjoy while we make-
out in your car to Beyonce songs.
You once told me that I "was the more beautiful person to grace this Earth" but Lover, I see your
grace in everything on this Earth.
And snow makes me smile because you like to ski and I'm from Canada so my face hurts
frequently.
Trench mapped hands, a sign of how many battles you've fought and won, how many battles
you've fought and lost, how many times you've picked yourself up off the dirt, smiled at me
and said "I'm fine, are you okay?"
Honestly, I have no idea how the most flawed person in the world, a girl who leaves her wet
towels everywhere, a girl who puts her keys in the same place but manages to forget where
they are, a girl who plays Assassin's Creed for 3 hours without blinking and wears that like a
proud Metal Of Honor, how can that girl make the most perfect person in the work happy?
Answer? I have no clue, but you don't have to cheat on any test, because I'll stay. As long as you
want me to, I'll stay.
Here for you when you get weepy, or angry, or curious to see what we can do behind closed doors.
I won't say "I love you". Not because it's not true. Nothing could be more true. But if I say it, I'll cry,
You'll kiss me, and I can't guarantee what will happen to our clothes after that.
So instead, I'll keep making the "that's what she said" jokes, until you're reminded of snow, or
maps, or breathing.
And I have fallen so hard for you that stone boarders between countries couldn't stop your
gravitational pull.
And like willow tree roots growing into shorelines, I get wetter every time you hold me.
So, I'll send you Steven King length facebook messages everyday.
I'll ring up my phone bill to $500.
Light candles for 3 hour skype dinners.
Because, long distance relationships are hard, but not being able to call you "mine" is excruciating.
Because, it's funny what you do to me.
Because, I love funny.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
Each sunday,
the owner's face lit up
as I popped in the neighborhood bodega
in need of paper towels, soap, toothpaste.
Occasionally, when I uttered the word “purple,”
his brown eyes glowed and he flashed me a smile
as he fetched the Trojan condoms behind the counter.
This week,
I came in on saturday,
he looked pleasantly surprised to see me,
earlier in the week.
until I reached the counter
holding tampons, desperate to stop my leaking body.
In my humanity,
I was no longer ****
not worthy of a smile.
Nor the well wishes of a nice evening.
His greetings had always had an invisible price tag,
exchanged for a glimmer of hope.
The hope that his kind words would
earn him a discount in the time it took
for me to live up
to his fantasy
one day.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
Island can't stop sliding
even when dull pencils
stuck in sand push back
strong, even when your
toes are curling inward
and holding on tight
The sunburn highway is
crowded today and we're
stuck in traffic, caught
behind a particularly
thick cloud, compounding
beach breezes and midday
shivering beneath towels
With sweaty hands clapping
beat and fast punches, the
overnight foliage blooms
and dies, laughing hard
in the bright room with no doors
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
she sat in the center of her home
becoming the heart of the halls
the blood drifting in and out of
the corridors,
the clot that stood still in the living room
unable to move to the next destination
stuck staring at the dusty painting
that haunted her tendency
to fix that which does not
need fixing,
humming the delicate tune
which ascended into the aorta
of her kitchen,
all the way
to the apex of her attic
and finally folding into itself
like the towels in her
chamber of cabinets,
before unraveling out
through the long vein
of her chimney,
the housewife who
makes a living
with sharpened bread knives
and turning scones into
christmas trees,
who croons ancient love songs
in her infinite spare time,
and i wonder as i
stare at her
from underneath my book
of russian poetry,
how she holds up
when the front door bursts opens
and nature sings
a solo to her heart.
Nov 20, 2015
Nov 20, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
He was lean, his aesthetic back stretches
Into neat trunks tied at the waist with cord
Sand sprinkled dipping in the circular pool
Where the shells and seaweed floated about
Like newly washed hair his shade of brown.
And this is how I remember him next to me
With our spades and colourful beach towels
Our clothes draped across rocks in the sun
And those plastic sandels with the salty buckles
Cutting into our fleet especially when new.
We were not very affectionate but occasionally
Romped the floors in our nightclothes at bed
Dragging the eiderdowns, downwards in disarray
And taking a length of string between bedrooms
So that we could keep connected by a joining tug.
This was childhood at its most fierce and beautiful
Before adolescence set its patterns on our forms
Marked us out for education and dress codes
Until then we were still securely latched in time
Asking each other, now and then, for piggy backs.
Love Mary for her brother ,Richard.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
Husbands, raise your hands
Keep them up if you love your wife
Keep them up if you colour your wifes hair
Okay, this is for the three of us that are left....
I did my wife a favour
As I do, because I can
I help her when I'm able
Not just because I am a man
I **** bugs when requested
I do the laundry like I should
I clean the bathroom when it's *****
And by doing so , feel good
Every few weeks I will help her
Hide the grey that she can see
I don't volunteer to do it
But it's cheap to hire me
A salon visit is expensive
Doing hair, and waiting hours
I just slip on my latex hand wear
And I have a bag full of super powers
Yes, I help my wife get couloured
I take the time and do her hair
I also, get it on the tiles
Up the wall and on two chairs
The dog gets covered just a little
The rug, a window and the bed
But, we always buy two packets
So, there's enough to do her head
I have a jacket slightly mottled
It's got a few brown spots, some red
I don't know exactly how it happened
I even got some on our bed
Just call me Mr. Kenneth
In my jumpsuit doing hair
I get it where I think she needs it
And I spray it everywhere
She comes out looking gorgeous
She's always happy with the result
She always looks a little different
Like someone who believes in the occult
If you're a husband who likes money
Save it, colour your wife's hair
Your part only takes ten minutes
You need ten towels, one mask, one chair
It brings us both closer together
My arms look like a leopard skin
All my shirts are slightly spotted
But all those spots, make me look thin
I've got to go now and get cleaned up
The carpets ruined, so's the wood
But, she's happy and we all know that
If the wife is happy....all is good!
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 7:22 PM UTC
My Grandmother's Hands
My Grandmother's hands told many tales
Of scrubbing steps and broken nails
Hand-washing clothes in enamel sink
Red football socks turned white towels pink
When not baking cakes at the old gas stove
Rag-rugs with old scraps of material she wove
Pantry shelves filled with powdered egg
Homemade rice pudding sprinkled with nutmeg
Sea-coal burning on an open coal fire
Bread on a toasting fork burning like a pyre
Grandma plumping up pillows from beneath granda’s head
Applying ointment to sores caused by being confined to bed
Hours spent at auctions bidding with her hand
Buying an incomplete bed wasn't what she planned
Back home in time for tea, crumpets and homemade strawberry jam,
I can still recall the smell of it, bubbling in the pan
Switching tv channels with a flick of her wrist
That’s how we did it back then, when remotes did not exist
Working hard all of her life, meeting everyone's demands
Every line and wrinkle told a story
On my Grandmother's hands
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
Distant island shapes beguiling
Floating ghosts of far off land
Appear sentinel as we lay
Hot and sunbathed on the sand.
Scorching beach has tricked our minds
Ever beckoning cool seas flow
Finely placed as time stands still
Myths of people long ago
Heat above the deep caldera
Yet at water’s edge a breeze
Every wave a stroke of calmness
Drags the black sand out with ease
Pushing, combing lava rock
Once a liquid burning hot
Hearts massaged by the tender noise
Deep sighs as the day burns on
Windy gusts caress unclad torsos
Smiling we hold hands out to catch
Throwing our heads back with the pleasure
Letting our warm brown frames collapse
Lazy resting towels on bodies
Sunbed dreaming, time for lunch
Decisions on the midday menu
A carafe of red or white, too much!
Later when the sun’s behind us
Deserted beaches for the night
Couples then prepare for evening
Soon tavernas come alight
Poolside dwelling welcomes back
Two weary souls from day outside
Scorching sun takes all about us
Thanks for love where we abide
Since we came and soaked our souls
In this perfect atmosphere
Love has blossomed even further
All is wonderful never fear
Patio evenings lying out
Herb aroma fills the nose
Drifting in and out of sleepy
Eyes feel heavy in repose
Cool wet noses brush our legs
Warm fur strokes a silken pass
Feline friends have come to visit
Glad that we are home at last
Nervous ******* lying still
Mewing loudly all surpassed
Two so gentle but true survivors
Bright eyes hiding traumas past
How lovely to have given respite
As more and more attached we grew
Warm and tender stroking softly
Alongside us as if they knew
Feb 3, 2010
Feb 3, 2010 at 12:11 PM UTC
simple reminders:
beach towels,
mustaches,
grilled vegetables
beetles,
time.
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 10:54 PM UTC
The last one thinks of, yet the most
Important ‒ the blind use it to feel
Bumps in the pavement, and the
Deaf are tapped on the shoulder
To get their attention.
Because of texture and good company,
The absence of smell and taste don’t
Ruin a good meal.
As infants we survive by being
Touched ‒ love is given by both
Parents, whose skin is recognized
As the warmth it provides.
When we grow ‒ the pubescent years
And beyond ‒ girls still whisper, kiss
And touch each other as signs of
Affection.
Boys grow up touch-deprived ‒ what
Makes them different? ‒ Male fears
That men don’t touch because that’s
A sign of being queer? Likely.
Sure, guys touch ‒ slaps on the ****
Playing sports, the snapping of
Towels in the shower room ‒ nothing
Gay about that!
Or is this sudden lack of tactile affect
A sign of maleness? If so, we wouldn’t
Shake hands ‒ or high-five or hug our
Brothers and best friends.
Consider the massage ‒ visiting the
Parlor run by Asian ladies, which for
A 20-spot more brings a ******* ‒
But answer an ad for online service
From a guy, and NOPE, not me!
Not unless of course the wife
Doesn’t put out no more or is
Sick ‒ then any excuse works.
But, that doesn’t mean I’m….
No, dude, it doesn’t, but any
Port in a storm ‒ we all know
What sailors do when at sea for
Months, or do we?
Maybe it’s just American men
Who are hung up ‒ The French
And Italians don’t seem to be
Paranoid, and Russian men are
Said to kiss each other on the lips!
So, maybe our psyches could use
A tune-up ‒ a lesson from a wise
And happy soccer player/philosopher ‒
“If it feels good, and doesn’t hurt
Anybody, do it!”
© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 1:39 PM UTC
take sips sip sips
tumble down the flowers
bundled in white towels at
my rose hips
from raised graves
velvet hearse
sandstone paves
push away stones along way
soothe
change patterns
surprise
break the consonance
act-like defiance
it's harder than we thought
hurry
get back to the tower
don't choke on the pink powder
before I get there
complex lush
doesn't need any soldiers
off horse, of course
only I reside in these gardens
part my own lawns to my great gates
a dosed beast waits
and I must return
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 2:14 AM UTC
tropical breeze waves washed upon a
soothsayer sand beach whispering love poems between each sigh
seagull clouds baying from above
lustrous sunshine massaging with temperate beams
beneath the waves, turtles twist in tubular turnabouts
bright coral and jaded fish teem in the reef
shimmering sunshine shining through waves
casting shadows and light amongst an oceanic spectrum
we flit through the ocean as foreigners and locals
tiny air bubbles pressing from our lips
unlike the denizens filtering through the reef
we press up to the surface and break through for breath
exiting the ocean of life, we wash upon the shore
driftboards sewn together in matrimony
our clam shelled hands interwoven in the fabric of our souls
sand pressed between to make a glistening pearl
i sit up while you lay down on our thin towels
falling asleep with an upward curve on your lips
i trace my finger down your back like pencil to paper
drawing each crevice, perfection, and blemish
on the landscape of your body
a faint breeze ghosts through the swaying palm trees
dolphins nonchalantly diving through the air and ocean
***** scuttling along the precipice of the sea and sand
waves washing the crooked edges of stones
amongst this equilibrium we are infinite
soaking up this portrait life like a sea sponge
in these moments we are infinite
moments we imagined we had
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 3:49 PM UTC
Remember when, you were a very little boy
and your mom would warm the towels up in the dryer
so when you jumped out of the bathtub shivering you would feel cozy warm?
Remember when, you were a very little girl
and your dad would hold you in his arms
and whirl around in circles until you both fell to the ground laughing?
Remember when, you were a little boy
and you scraped your knee when you fell out of the tree,
and your mom held you close until the tears stopped?
Remember when, you were so sick you stayed home from school,
and your mom made special soup just for you
and cuddled you up and read your favorite story 6 times, just because?
Remember when, your pet hamster, Louie, died,
and you insisted on having an official burial ceremony,
and mom and dad said nice things about Louie before the shoebox was covered up?
Remember when, you were a little girl,
and your grandma gave you your first china tea set
and she had tea and crumpets with you and Bear?
Remember when, you were very young,
and a hug or a kiss or a word would repair
the biggest hurts in the world?
I remember when..............................................................
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 11:52 AM UTC
you are right to not believe
for you
the silent cries
that carry into the night
do not existence the volume
of your tv is adjusted
& everything becomes
a mute apparition
illuminated
but not heard.
you are right not to believe
for you
the sounds of gunshots
are the popping of fire crackers
after holiday barbecues
& the screams
come from parades of people
cajoling down side streets.
you are right not to believe
for you
the only hanging you know
exists in laundry whites
bleached towels are a must
for wiping hands
clean
& unstained
from the bloodied bodies
of loved ones.
you are right not to believe
for you
the world doesn't exist
beyond these bordered white picket fences
& bakes sales
until your mexican comes
to clean
suburbia
when will you realize
the war to be fought
runs beyond 5’o clock rush hour
& taking away your son’s ps4?
Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 8:17 PM UTC
I fell asleep
To the smell of antiseptic,
Sterilizer, biogesic,
And the cold touch of metal
Rods that only seem
To grow colder
With the touch of hospital
Left in the student's
Ward - a whistle
Permeates the silence
Of seniors
Painlessly sleeping away
Hours upon
Hours until graduation -
A coming of age -
An escapism from past papers
And teachers who have
Themselves given up
On them.
And the lights you
See are as bright
And as empty as those blinking
Feebly
In that of the school doctor's
Office, one not really
Blinking more of
Washed, and supported
Wobbling by daylight
Seeping in through peeling blinds,
Unable to see too much -
The headaches and stomachaches
Have rendered him numb
To the feeling.
And lunch comes
And out blows the whistle to
Signify the end
Of playtime for
The young ones, start
Of playtime for
The older ones,
Whistle blowing muffled
By the septic tank glass
Doors of this sacred outhouse,
Wards muffling the cries of children
As they flee the quadrangle,
Once mad, twice elated,
Still innocent, untired,
Not needing to fake sick
And rest their heads softly
Upon thin soft beds with
Towels wrapped haphazardly
Behind their backs,
Nostalgia, it was
Laughter, I swear it was louder
When we used to run,
When our eyes lit up like
The sun petering in through
The doctor's orifices,
When our bruises and bumps
Smelled like betadine,
Not sleep
And cups of sterile water downed
To mask the scent of
Fake cough syrup,
And cuts gotten from fiddled syringes,
Bruised ankles
Bent over undersized beds,
And not running over
Uneven pavement,
Ankles brushing tablecloth,
Schoolbag,
Basketball and frisbee,
And the screaming.
Oh, how I miss
The screaming.
Jan 15, 2015
Jan 15, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC