We, blue cargo, strapped
to our neighbor’s backs.
Their hooves chafe against the white
house lawn toward the artificial
orange of his face from which spews
messianic verbiage—this American
temptation in a rotted core like
Play-Doh blanketing a blade.
Do we love when red wool
scrapes our faces? Do we fight
as they run toward the yellow
of his artificial pompadour
because they mistook it
for the sun?
~
https://www.matthewfeinsteinwriter.com/
I can still hear the slow jam jingle of the ice cream truck gliding along past our yellow house like it was riding on rails
Pick a star, any star & I’ll reach straight up and grab it for you put it right inside your hot little hand we had
for Alex — a golden shovel, after Andrea Gibson The sky is still keening and so am I. What is too many tears? I let
It will probably happen when I’m at work, and he recruits a nosy, but caring friend with an AI-powered search engine. They’ll hush behind a
Your gaze becomes a stare, forcing your views without saying a word. Your eyes tell me a story. One where I fall to the wayside.
