The Lands aper

Poetry 32

Saltwater, rough facial hair. Birthday flowers and burnt hotdogs. Green shirts with holes in them, covered in dirt. Six brothers. Three daughters. Fifteen hour days, awake for the sunrise for thirty-five years. A little bit of autumn in your grin. November comes and he never leaves you. Butterfly garden off the patio for your youngest. Lay on your back in the sea, breathe. No vacation, no one wants to work in the sun all day. Trimming trees, planting in the soil. Earmuffs for gusting the leaves into the street. We are waving to you but you’re wearing your cool shades. Red dump truck with, loud back up beeper. Why did I used to be embarrassed by that sound when you would drop me off at preschool. Why did we all believe that the car would fly.