13.1k views, 2xBest Poetry Period. A nothing from nowhere cast words to a world wide wind. |
I don those small galoshes on my feet, tight straddling a baby toe, no wiggle room, blisters grow with each stomped puddle. brown ripples dividing, overflow an already doused street, in my sleep. April eternal and I'm dry and still in PJs. I spin her good umbrella, better than mine (broken by the wind) and lance like a fool, stabbed like a buffoon, back pedal, stumble. but there's nowhere dry to land, bottom wet. inside a windbreaker house, flapping as a bird, as if I could fly from nest to bus stop, mid-April, when I finally appear after dark. I see it go by and hurl a steel lunchbox, dented too many times, tumbling an alley from a bruised big toe. I imagine he sneers, as passing yellow rolls, sends a toxic blast, when I wake up, fuss and wail, in April fading. and I'm still dry, head lowered, shuffling. I anchor the rear seat, in a cloud, as she drives. past scolded, arms folded, ruled for having imagination when April weather changes and I haven't arrived. every gnarled tree out the window glares back. but in my paneled room, she gently slides bedside, tousles unkempt hair, reminds I need a haircut and get ready in April. can't feel her lips brush my skin, pale, wrinkling, sinking in bone, where I lay and turn to window for information. not too many days left before break. I expect rain. 4.15/17.22 28 lines, free verse I missed the bus a lot, a lot, especially when there were so many puddles to splash. This is a mix of childhood memory, dreams and anticipating dying with her blessing before I go...to my new school. |