Friday, July 23, 2010
Separate buses, but the same stops.
Yours the grade threes. Mine the fours.
We spilled out
between somewhere and other, sweating.
Thing is, right now it is all more real
Your kids surrounded you while mine
ran amok. Always in control, you.
Slapdash, my grade fours were rabid!
Unprepared slavering beasts
to your styrofoam cup-holding charges
drinking in satiated blasts.
than it was then. Me, wondering
for twenty years now...
Morning light is falling upon the shut eyes
once fixed upon a broken pump-handle.
the last word of your unfinished sentence
"Piece of ____."
c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010