Touch-Monday
My
eyes are
sorely touched
with the harsh flash
of puce and pink-red
exhaust fumes leak lazy
from the line of matchbox cars
clogging humanities sewers
lungs gasp at green tires lay rubber
like the wail of infants taken from tit
dangling arms wave the air seeking entrance
to the already well come fill’d shunt
sighing rubbing my lids lights strobe
just past the seared surfaces
of my bruised retinas
my feet throb swollen
now depressing
releasing
pedal
push.
One may be "Touched" in physically, mentally or spiritually.
Poet: Debbie Guzzi
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