Slip of the Tongue ~ A Collection of Poetry

Dried Flowers

Something's been pulling at the loose strings of my sweaters,

And the rotary phone doesn't make the same songs

that it used to. 

I miss them now,

The lightening bugs on the back stoop

and my tap dancing shoes—they don't fit so well anymore.

I've got dried flowers sitting on the piano bench

that decorate the ground more than the stem.

And I only remember the things nobody

wants to hear,

So I've been useless. For a while now,

I haven't fit so well either.