04-25-2016, 07:35 AM
Tiptoed in my spats
The shipping lane is sand-banked
a starched collar feels sharp
against a Captains weathered skin
stepping out into traffic.
I should be double bagged,
still I tear under the weight
spilling each day at the front door,
on my knees for apples and tin cans.
The letters slide from the page,
perhaps words hide away
afraid of what others would read
I could write a murder
to bring them back.
My tap dance routine
is well rehearsed, no mistakes
from these frail chair legs,
a top hat above the tales.
The plasters soft and falls away,
an epitaph to harder days
the beam is aged oak,
stronger than a simple life.
The shipping lane is sand-banked
a starched collar feels sharp
against a Captains weathered skin
stepping out into traffic.
I should be double bagged,
still I tear under the weight
spilling each day at the front door,
on my knees for apples and tin cans.
The letters slide from the page,
perhaps words hide away
afraid of what others would read
I could write a murder
to bring them back.
My tap dance routine
is well rehearsed, no mistakes
from these frail chair legs,
a top hat above the tales.
The plasters soft and falls away,
an epitaph to harder days
the beam is aged oak,
stronger than a simple life.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out