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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.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015




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