park « Sara Arizona

America

He spits in his rag, washes my car window

San Francisco by Sara Fryd

A sign of the times

What sign is that, I ask myself?

That America is in trouble?

That our veterans have no place to live?

That a roof over one’s head is not a necessity

For a Marine?

Who fought [...]

I got polka-dotted today, at the park

Under the clouds

Next to the ducks eating bread

Next to the pale lavender brown egret

that came for a visit.

I’ve never been polka-dotted

Before this morning

Before Rachael showed me how.

What wonder what delight

these 26 letters bring me;

how they tumbleweed

through [...]

There are days, I’m a bird

Capable of flight

Have my wings extended

So far the stretch tingles

The feathers of red and brown

For I am a three inch Roma tomato

Who flies with brown feathers

Attached, growing

On round fat sides

Flittering through the cottonwoods

Turning yellow, gold and [...]