White sneakers coated in brown,
raced down muddy roads of the eastern city.
Glazed in summer heat,
his jersey was soaked under his pits
and pasted over a bony chest.
Excited cries from one no older than eleven,
he held two hands out to her,
boastful of his wooden birds’ house.
Carve it well, she said,
or you’ll find your skin dressed in splinters.
It won’t be long, he said,
before your little boy will be cementing bricks,
raising our ceiling, widening our rooms.
I’ll fix in a fireplace for you when nights get cold
and air conditioned vents when days grow long.
By now the mud-trekked sneakers dried up,
and the jersey was well outgrown,
But the new worn helmet did not fall off
when they told him to race back down
to that oft-used road of his eastern city.
Anxious cries from one no older than thirty,
he worked up to the hill of the rubble.
Drawing out what’s left of his promised house,
he stopped, he stared,
when under the fire’s grill,
he found her skin dressed in bricks.
I’m trying to stay consistent with writing so just the other day, I opened up my blog in hopes that I can continue honing my writing muscle via poetry. I’m always open to suggestions and constructive criticism.
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