Wet ShoesMature

Heavy precipitation in the suburbs;
A cold engine set to drive,
And I a kite in a November sky
And they should shut up because I am slow
With bare fingers, nose, lips and ears.
And the exhaust smells like the sticky heater indoors.

Chain wire looks more hateful than usual
And children like white,
But instead of obscene colours to gouge upon it
They use their feet.
And the aftermath soup of no design is all relative
But no one ever gave a shit about the canvas anyway.

Jimmy's nose cries into his lips
But he's six and only remembers how soap tastes.
He dramatizes how he threw snow at Elle but broke through ice
And his socks are cold
Using the writer's guide for Sesame Street and a mouth with holes in it,
Crying and asking to go through the doors;
But I told him not to play on ice
And it's not my damn fault.

My shoes are dry and I'm fine.
And I have happiness.
And I have happiness.

The End

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