Every June and July I Hide Inside

 

Holding onto pain because there’s nothing more
Black nails pick endlessly at open sores
Fire ants crawl up my arm screaming for a score
Who wants to recognize better to ignore

It’s time for the Prom and to start the party
Expects me to pick her up well and hearty
The King and Queen can’t be to late or swarthy
Cutting lines in the car and the door hurried

Start of the drizzle with wet card boarded roof and walls
Our last shared eight was cut heavy, light and small
Rivulets forming and finding taint and balls
Brings black rain twisted metal and her scream’s death call
© 2015 Michael Yost 03/28

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