I sipped lightning like sweet tea,
let it rinse the sand from between
my teeth, spit glass shards of unease
into my palm. Independence Day
lit up social feeds with jaded grumbles–a vacation
from patriotism and the sweltering pressure
of election propaganda, and a nation
screamed for better candidates
one man trying to make space
on the ballot with bullets. Just once
I wish it wasn’t my dirty dishes
splintering in the sink.
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.
