Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Poem Two

I suppose it all comes down to what you want to lie about

It doesn’t really matter, she thought
if the phone  never rings, I really don’t care.
The rain can go on raining,
the temperature does not need to rise.
I can wear my boots all year,
the Mary-Janes can stay in their box.

It doesn’t matter much if we
only have two seasons this year.

The daffodils stunted, tulips withered.
I am not bothered by any of this, she said.
Name of my Summer House

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