Friday, May 27, 2011

Sitting at a table selling
jars, full of ugly scolding things,
fifty cents a dirty jar.

A small child works the table
on a long row of giants
who laugh, spittle thick
on thick lips
their voices towers, towering

fifty cents a
dirty jar

what is there to sell?

no one buys
a child would rather give
take, take a jar
for free, a jar cracked
as petals spread apart
as pollen, blown.

1 comment:

becca said...

another great poem love your writing

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