Categorypoetry

playing (with Fire)

p

stories about my childhood
that I know to be true
but don’t believe–
memory isn’t mine
killing black snakes from a boat
in the pond behind Art’s
corner store
dill pickles
thirty three cent smokes
a mars bar under my belt
he caught me the first time
wouldn’t be the last

Grace

G

She stands out there for the world to see,
her undecided right arm raised
against the ash grey sheet,
neither beckoning nor saluting,
four stubby half fingers
mocking the wave you might prefer
to have seen.

Fruit Lady

F

In her previous life
she held up the roof
of a high school gymnasium.
She misses the sneaker chirps
and the thap, thap, thap
of bouncing orange balls
less than she enjoys
being upright in the sun
bearing only the weight
of an imaginary fruit bowl
on her upturned head.

Your sidebar area is currently empty. Hurry up and add some widgets.