Sunday, June 21, 2015

Grounded


Grounded


You were hiding there
in that not so corner
dive, like an ostrich
in an endless hole
surrounding you
from prying eyes.

Chicken bones scattered
on wax paper sheets
rest in their red
basket weave
plastic coffin
between you and her.
Suicide wings, how ironic,
wings to hang yourself with.

In your cheap beer
and whiskey haze
you listen, proud
honored that she
would tell you her secrets,
words floating around,
mingling with the illegal
smoke and Kenny Chesney tunes.

Pristine rugs and
a just pruned lawn, a
low-fat meatloaf at six,
fade farther away,
to the burning
top soil above,
where eager eyes
wait to pounce.

While here sits a
new angel to swallow
you up and fly you to
a different place,
a new home, a new hole, and
new eyes to someday hide from.

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