holy suffering suckotash
the hot summer days of texas
from the view point of the reckless brown grasses
protecting the dusty dry dirt
is pretty much 'what lawn?'
as most of it is thistles and stalk
talking all night long amongst themselves
in a whispery voice about the baby birds
dying in their own nest (as if i didn't know this) the brave mom
helpless against the onlslaught no bugs
no worms no suckotash it's bleak vinegar
and gall it's beaten and shriveled
the desiccated acacia and it's spiny horns
gestures to the dry empty sky reminding
me to look out for thorns
in the grass where i ride
my bike the broken glass in the street
and the trees by the side
have painted themselves
the color of rain their only way
of praying i once was a tree with a friend
in a play on a stage by the river
downtown
and our part was to dance when
pam came out and we did i
remember i remember I
remember how we swayed
how it rained
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