He took his vorpal sword in hand
spider egg breakfast
and a country for old men.
He sits there remembering
auburn hair inexplicably stuck to the bed sheets after days and days
of washing on the permanent press cycle,
scabs crawling across shoulders to the tune of kitten kisses,
she used to laugh ferociously
and her lips didnt touch when she reads poems,
blue potatoes cooking in a cast iron skillet
and a bathrobe turned burka.
like little broom sticks on ice,
she won her bicycle in a curling contest,
all cardboard christmas style,
10 easy steps, instructions for constructions but no tools,
all those parts in individually labeled boxes,
so he wont forget how much and in what order,
he loves those things,
like eggs on the side walk,
or cotton candy aftershave,
egyptian rain?
now rocking chairs that bite and snatch,
clowns that catch,
and decibel turn doorbell or drum beat,
the hoof fall of miles and mile of running over road,
the same trail seen every time,
so we will not forget, so we will remember,
that breakfast, of spider eggs and sausage
and a sweat smoked bed.
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some things need editing, and some other things cry out for it.
