still waiting here, a blue without horizon, an awful gale without wind to blow. your name about the corners in reflective manifestations, none the direction from where we came. keeping the posture when the rain falls teeming down, the realization tread water means one has since drowned. and when the sun dries the sodden mess it leaves me feeling worse. at best. no more skipping puddles or reimagined clouds with a picket fence. hands fill the pockets but nothing overflows my heart the way your hip once anointed seamlessly along mine. the passerby give no note to the stoic man with westward eyes, homeward.
listen to this poem
© Copyright Joseph A. Pinto. All Rights Reserved.
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