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Date Posted: 08:12:43 07/25/01 Wed
Author: Sarah
Author Host/IP: 166.82.51.73
Subject: We Never Know What Life Delivers

My son got his nipple pierced in hopes of feeling something.
I too am rejected. Just thinking wears me out living la vida loca.
Disapproval is a child's game played by people beyond heartache,
beyond indifference, but I read on and listen to their sounds.

Pages of stories turn dying days insignificant as short-lived flowers.
My daughter lays pried with her sleeping eyes open, not wanting
to give into maturity. Not yet aware there are other places to search in.
These blueticks hump rabidly, and I have become a baby bird protector.

Porch rocker wobbles cut roses in my crystal vase swirl and mind dances,
and this is my company. This rocky world dances to tunes mean and tough.
Everyone is always broke, and even strip tease waitresses are not tipped.
Usually, I write poems surrounded by living composers with high hopes.

It’s not enough I make the brilliant sun drop kisses on these children of mine,
with their naked feet and rosy cheeks come telling me of my faults that shine.
Divorced and remarried to my lover. Reflected glowing faces in selfish ploy
blows through my crew-cut yard. Aware we aren’t innocent my mind foreplays.

Thoughts reminisce the silence from golden lingua talks, diamond night walks,
unselfish joy in our summer lovemaking, and now in winter’s sun I touch my lips.
Intoxicating pain is rising from bedsores, and now it is my time to verbalize.
My belief is these children are on secret missions to change my mind, my home.

The telephone rings and they collect all benefits I reap. Maybe, I should become
similar, or more like Henry the Eighth who axed his loves for failure to provide heirs.
Among other major crimes, they laugh at my mention of their working. I wish
I could offer you some brilliant sun honey-tinged words today, with precious flecks
of phonetic beauty, but all I have is verbs and nouns, and bouquets adjective filled.

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