When We Would Fling Syllables Between Rounds
the foot of my bedbecame heavily weighted
by a pool of words
that peeled off like clothing
come midnight.
eager tongues and eager bones.
morning was a sure thing.
always. I learned.
jumbled, those words lost context with sunrise.
and the sentences passed at breakfast
were awkward and senseless.
they spilled like syrup.
"coffee, sex, love, jam, and cream?"
"lust, half n' half, scrambled please, don't tell anyone."
we thought morning was a finish line.
but we can't remember the start of the race.
and we know that we have not won.
Poetry by Shawn Monahan
Read 812 times
Written on 2008-02-02 at 21:49
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