a girl in a dress rides by on a bike
real close to the hand of a beatdown romantic,
sweeping petals from the path
with the soles of his bare and broken feet.
he can't tell the weeds from the flowers
but his heart's in the right place,
he thinks he mighta heard someone say.

got a bandage on his thigh to cover a tat
he wrote for himself a day or so back.
his head's full'a bombed-out buildings
with no room for a memory
of whatever the hell it says.
the pain has a shape he can't quite trace
and yesterdays are for folk who can't buy more gin,
so don't matter much now, or in the end.

there's a badly-written ad for salsa dancing lessons
stapled to a dyin' tree nearby.
but girls on bikes don't much turn around,
and there's not time enough left
for dreams like that.

ain't even got shoes.

09/12/2014

Posted on 09/12/2014
Copyright © 2024 V. Blake