Not Personal
By Maya White-Lurie
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
If every poem is a prayer then, Honey, all the Richmond lights are bad dads,
hovering attentive until needed then vanishing breath time. Old noodles sour
in the garbage bags we leave for gloved hands each Monday, train tracks
rattle through typewriter letters, your stubble rasps my palm. Fireworks
and the party across the alley continue all night in independence key, but everything
shits when it dies. Everything. So, Honey, throw that hoop about your hips
remember we are drifting crusts on magma.
#Unreal #Poem #Poetry #Richmond #LivingLife #Party #Noises #Disturbances #Magma #AlwaysMoving
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