SunDay the SEvEnth

I always walk this littered road.
No Sunday solace to see-
Rusted can-
partial scarecrow man
and clothing hung in a tree.

Hub caps, bottle caps, wrappers, butts and bag-
thrown out the window
by passerbys
upon green shattered glass I lag.

Tires and tires and tiredly-
I tiptoe toward the start,
a heavy lock and an oxidized chain,
I beg not to fall a part
of me
is here and another bit is there
expectedly
within that realm of nothing but a tear.

A rip
her drips
on morning travels home-
Possessions stolen from her shoulder,
she chased them,
screams unknown.
Grassy blades, sharpened-
first night.
New box.
Blue door.
Chased through blinks and winks as I never have before.

Questioning it all-
my place
my breath
my choice.

No other option but the ink,
only this of rhyme and voice.


A pattern to distract
a journey-
yet another ride.
Frozen digits like fish fingers
and
in my shell I hide.

Red drivers press hard zooming,
pedal with jerk from either side-
I sway forth and back and a woman sits beside.
me smelling like wood,
similar to a hardware store,
I inhale and commit
to having a better day today than before.

Lady Lumber
minus slumber
Party on, I stumble.
With a shake,
a rattle
and a rasp-

and my soft Sunday stomach grumble.