the old street has crumbled
into bones and bricks, or so I hear
everyone has put out rain barrels
in the evening, fires crackle
and the smell of potatoes
stretches out for miles and miles
hungry clouds roll in
from all sides
mixing up mud stew
in the hot dirt roads
perched on a lumpy hay-bail
in the shelter of steep eaves
we whittle plumes of smoke
out of a wet cigarette
and whistle through our teeth
sharing a sugary plum
collecting juice on our cheeks
toss the stone out to the mud
and wait for it to grow
No comments:
Post a Comment