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dark surfaces don’t reveal the mess. her own words, crumbled in their staleness and left again to redirect my demeanor. i mean, can you believe her? the unfortunate answer yes. roiled within thunder, there has always been someone to rob the fork from my tongue. lashless and listless, anger withdraws and i stand like a beach with no tide. her lips churn about a better season but the seashell to my head echoes lie.
so take the spray and wipe it.
and i do with clear eyes hiding a dirty handprint pressed upon the cloth.
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© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
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'From My Front Steps,' 'Scotch and Scars' and 'A Distilled Spirit' poetry collections available in paperback and ebook on Amazon.
