by Amy McDonald
I can tell by
the paper-white of your
Sunday-best
crisped with
the starch of sails.
You bend to the
ground—unaware
of both my lurking observation
and the age heralded by
the chalk of your hair.
And I can tell
by my reflection
in the midnight ink
of your belt
and the urgent lineup
of big-ticket purchases
draped securely on it.
that you
are no maintenance man.
No comments:
Post a Comment