On my thirtieth birthday
I sit on the porch having a smoke and
playing gangster rap. The suburbs are quiet,
kids in cul-de-sacs, lonesome windows glaring vacancy
across the street tidy as windblown sand. Was this
the image I had waited for so long? A desert voice calls,
an uncommon coupling, a rock formation
vanishing as it gallops its slow gallop.
No comments:
Post a Comment