Mandolyn ...


missing the exit


maps don't exist
in the glovebox anymore
i truck along the highway,
the sun in my periphery,
telling me
i've got it all wrong
slapping my skin
like a baby's hands in a birthday cake
before they take their face there.

i'm half confused
about the patterns in the air, in my life
the weight of silence feels lighter
than the crestfallen look
in his eyes

the dark seeds that fall
from every huff- every gruff sound
he makes-
i curl my arms around me
pray for things that are out of reach
out of my sandbox, my pothole street
where the sun remains
scolding me with a one-way sign

threatening i'll go blind
if i turn left
or right

Submitted: Sunday, July 13, 2014
Edited: Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Topic of this poem: lamentation


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