dirt on the welcome mat

Tag Archives: pocket

she sells
butterfly shadows
and handfuls of
cantaloupe strings
in a summertime stand
just off the fringe
of highway dust
and blurry pavement heat

she gypsy flings
earnings to
the breeze until
sound brushes through
her hair like wind chimes,  
dimes roll from pocket seams
like dreams,
not missed
unremembered

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Puppet strings

Swing from

My fingers and toes.

You pull out a bow

From your

Frayed back pocket

And somehow

The sound

Is electric.