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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