Black-Top Fry
On my free period
On the ash fault
I lay and smell like rubber and heat
Frying on the black-top
It’s so damn hot out here
But I don’t want to move
Because if I do I’ll have to speak
Someone will ask me what’s wrong
‘Cause you can’t just lay on the black-top and think
In sleeves so long and dark
With hair so dark a halo
I must be burning up
But no one will question until I sit up
Am I sad they will ask
What happened and I’ll say
Nothing out of the ordinary
Just more of the same old things
Same old pains
Then they’ll make me see a councilor
So for now I will lay
Frying on the black-top
Cold burning hot and numb
And mutter that I’m fine
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
