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French fries with pepper.
Time is nothing but
little literary soldiers standing
on vibrant lines
of albatross and sluggish notions of dismay, keeping us company with static tv lines
as the national anthem holds us close
with no underwear on, Avon samples,
bright red, glass freight trains
filled with the fragrant ramblings
of all those uncles manning grills.
Rose soaps in makeshift bouquets
explode near crocheted tissue boxes. Eventually the tiny bits
of grey dust between the petals,
merely a formality,
become a soft,
flesh colored,
plasticine bandage
with tiny holes
that allow your wound
to breathe.
Ray Strickland
May 03, 2023
