Paperboy
The cold changes
the weight of my steps.
Each door opens with glass.
Dogs bark in circles.
Milkfloats whine in electric.
My parka tired with old dirt.
The early moon carelessly ignored.
My hands are dark with print.
Nearly in another life
I discover the inner life of gates
and how to dance
around plants and bikes
and how to grow
into a morning.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2015
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