Dry Poem by Justin Houseman
Dry
Hush this Minute.
Listen to it,
The furious reeking
Perched on the windowsill.
It smells like rain.
He’s watching you, watching me.
Hush up. Give him something.
Jimson. Golf ball. Quarter.
I could smell the clothes flapping.
And the smoke blowing across the branch.
We could hear the roof.
Ain’t heard nothing come down here.
And I cried.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
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4/23/2024 5:19:14 AM # 1.0.0.1119
