Tired Sort of Rage


Same picture every time, maybe not to a tee

But the trousers are indefinitely white, beige

And the imitation chocolate mother told me not to buy

Ends up on the seat, my duff

The bottom of my sneakers

So that I wished I could wipe my hands

On the wall of dewy evergreens

(I must have counted a thousand)

And when they were few and far between

We counted the yellow cars

Not such a simple task, that

But a last resort to an old deck of cards

(The concentration made me ill)

And while we begged for a pit stop

A drip drop of water, the cool, clean kind

Mother decided it was due only

To pull out a cancer stick, a match

She was standing on the gravel, barefoot

We watched her from the hot breathing car

And the smoke she implied

(The mosquitoes surfed the plumes)

But they never dared suck her blood-

            Only ours.


The End

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