... poem ..., ... poetry ...

dirty laundry

i slept nearly two
decades on the scales.
weighed in the balance,
oft times, hell! most times
i was found wanting.
my love was a laved sheet hung to
dry in the wind. and left; to
dry, always there, blowing, flipping,
fraying, end upon end, season
after season, yet,
never dry enough. never ready to
be brought in. never mended.
never crisp, like the
taste of Fall fires on the
tongue’s tip. and so i stayed there,
latched to the line.

until i let go
and simply blew away.


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