When there is no place left to go we'll just go to the streets, or we'll ride the freeways till there is just enough gas to get home.
When we get home everything is where it was before. The bed is ice cold. You take a shower, or run bath water. You heat up left overs from two days ago and entertain yourself with late night television, sometimes the early morning show.
You place yourself between the frigid covers and the sound of your own tears is your lullaby. The bed seems colder this night, colder than the night before
©Christopher F. Brown 2009
1 comments:
i think that the title doesnt connect to the poem. a change of title may help your reader understand what your trying to say in the poem. i think the first two stanzas dont connect to the last two. i would read and revise the poem so that it flowed better.
Post a Comment