Mornings
Mornings
My five-year-old son
Wheaties on his cheeks
Draws yellow flowers on my paycheck stubs.
When a grey cloud blocks the sun
He shakes his spoon at it, threatening extinction
And casts a fierce accusation my way.
Through holes of dreams
I maneuver escapes in the old Ford
Pick up hitchhikers who wear glasses.
Then summer takes a wet turn.
Dandelions, top-heavy, stagger
In the grass that needs cutting.
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.
