Title:
The grace of an old-fashioned lawn in a back yard flat as a pitch. He mows in a white singlet on scorched Sunday afternoons dark continents of sweat staining his blue cotton hat. Now that he's alone he's in the house but not of it. Sleep is frictionless yet still he can't afford it. The heat is a heartless banker. One more friend moves south one more night he spends watching headlights cross the ceiling.
Author:
Bio:
What is the sum of 5 and 9:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.