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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required The farmers sleep with Third eyes open. Ever watchful over their teenage daughters. How the boys must beseech them desperately. Uncomfortable, muggy fondlings In the bed of a red rusted pickup Parked by the creek dubbed Lovers Point. At the breakfast table in the morning, They glow with proximity And their tired eyes hover dreamily From the orange cranberry muffins To the freshly squeezed orange juice Filled at the half way mark of a mason jar. When you ask why they don't eat They simply smile And say nothing. Your curiosity will linger on your teeth But still you will say nothing. Bitter memories of your past regrets To teach lessons of discretion Are better left unsaid. You will not douse them in the overwhelming Blanket of your security And the palms of your hands that Once smiled in the womb like presence Of handling your new born daughter And naming her Jane or Virginia Is suddenly missing the hold of her hand. But you share a few natural harmonies Like the silent agreement of pecking his cheek Twice before bedtime Or the precarious way you both sit at The wobbling three legged milking stool When your pulling on Betsy on Thursday And she's tugging at Betty on Wednesday As you shave the gray stubble of your throat. But for now in the strangely comfortable Peace of staring at the spots of jam On the white and yellow checkered table cloth You'll abruptly slide your chair back And lean closely to her ear as you slightly whisper Slightly inaudible notations.
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