You think less of me,
the way your eyes
curl up at the sound of my voice.
Something went wrong,
terribly wrong,
at the old picket fence
that frames your mother’s garden.
Like two gnomes,
we stood fixed in dramatic positions
with fingers like barrels
from a sawed-off shotgun,
lips for triggers,
and hearts for targets.
You did most the talking.
Rumor has it
I learned to hide my hands
in my pockets,
can’t say the same for my ears,
poor bastards.
So you yelled,
and I churned buttered palms
in thick denim,
'til my pants spit up a dime,
a ripped receipt
and some lint
into your mother’s roses,
which, by the way,
will bow their ugly heads
to the old picket fence
and weep at what they saw
that day in the garden. |
Submission Name: Lips for Triggers (Hearts for Targets)
