The sky's got that look,
that face it pulls
when it's holding on to something
and we're saying "Spit it out"
It takes its own sweet time
to tell us about the slobber on the back porch
and neglects to mention the hot, damp air
that creeps through the screen door
and flops down like a thing alive
(breathing like it ran a marathon
just to remind the thermostat
who's boss)
the trees fan themselves
(shedding pollen all the while,
the nerve of it)
green grass waves white flags
in the war against weeds
the bugs
are bugs.
With every "Bless you"
we pray for rain;
with every day
we croon to the sun
"It's time for bed, now"
and wait for it to believe us.
(A/N: Written in June of 2018. Some of the original A/N from that time: I thought about "I'd say the heat's not all it's cracked up to be, but the ground would disagree" but it was too long a title (for this piece, at the very least) and didn't belong in the poem itself. Another time, maybe.)
YOU ARE READING
Crumpled Paper
PuisiCliche title? Maybe. It's just unorganized poems. Doesn't need anything fancier. Mostly very straightforward writes about mundane things. No mushy love poems, no dark broody poems. I write somewhere else so this is mostly gonna be an ease-of-refer...
