tears on whitewash and rusted nails

she’s there, does not love fences, they
make her cry

but firms up her backbone and sends
the horsehair brush

coating of something sitting in dented
cans and paper labels

onto wood picket and rusted nails,
skips the gaps

they get filled in later to silence
yelping dogs

and quiet slingshots from pinging
glass fronts that

hold onto rubber arms;

wears her ring finger rough from
bargain wood and price tags

paint grasps coveralls and old sneakers
with tenacious hands

uncut grass with white tops gasps for
sun and turpentine

wipes her sweat with hard work and
tired bones

pulls out of a deep pocket where forgotten
thoughts remain, an old photo

of him,

he wears frowns and wrinkles from
crinkled black and white

on the back, “that thing standing on
the deck is me.

i know you will say you like this
snap but i still say

it’s no good, love…”

another photo anxious to breathe
air is reluctantly

pulled out of lint and jacks,

husband, wife, two offspring,
they question,

“where’s daddy?”

storm off of rocks and disagreeable
blue water,

a photograph washed up, waves
poured it onto sand

poured it down a path to a beach

her tears on whitewash and
rusted nails…

Copyright © 06/12/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®


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