1.31.21
BOOT.S.TRAPS
The heaviest thing I’ve ever carried was the weight of dissatisfaction.
That blundering authoritarian has a way of spoiling the bite off a Georgia Peach.
Thankfully, in my years, be it by wisdom or reconciliation; I’ve learned to keep the keys of expectation in the junk drawer. Same way I make the bed instead of hanging up on my therapist, or cherish the growth spurts of mourning when I taste melancholy on the spoon of lips once scooping innocence and wonder.
We’re aging now. There’s a new generation mocking our skinny jeans and undercuts. Hangovers are daylong companions and his dick is more whiskey than phallus.
I’ve grown a gardens in paces everyone condoned barren. Instead of writing eulogies to crops fallen, I choose to wrap my tongue around the fruit of the thriving. Plums and dill pay no mind to the chard too charred.