Title:
The wonder of an old-fashioned lawn flat as a pitch in my backyard I mow with grace on scorched Sunday afternoons dark continents of sweat staining my silk hat Now that he's alone he's in the house but not of it. Sleep is meaningless whats the point? The heat is a heartless banker. he moves my friends south one more night he spends watching headlights cross the ceiling.
Author:
Bio:
What is the sum of 6 and 7:
It's your turn! Move into the poem. Renovate it. Knock down its walls. Put your spin on it. Make it your own.