Poetry

Not a quart of iced tea,chilly beads of sweat tracking down its sides,pooling on the green formica.They drink a toast to the sun and the breezefrom inside enameled lattice,turn up…

I imagine you tiny— two Q-tips long— blonde hair shiny, eyes bright as silver, mouth open in delight, full of giggles and diamonds. You tumble atop cotton ball clouds, bound…

First thing this mornin'— before I open my eyes— I smile. Metal scrapin' on metal I swear. It's mama fryin' eggs and bacon in that ole thick black pan, lookin'…

You visit sporadically, usually on Tuesday (you always liked the song). Outside the wooden door, you pose like a child next to a crayoned wall. Three quick raps at the…