the lemon tree is dead but I can still see her painted toe nails

it sits in the corner of the kitchen naked and confused while I make tea and iron shirts

leafless, root bound reminders of better days 

lost boys and window sills in the sun where she came all wrapped in cardboard like an old Police song

“and so I sit her in the corner and sometimes stroke her hair..,” 

letters and words are deeds, and mountain tops and songs on cassette tapes fade down Highway 22 once upon a time 

long and lean, years pass in dark eyes and now little footsteps fill her empty spaces

all while the lemon tree sits


the songs said, “A breath of air was all she needed to make her lose that frown…” 

but she is gone
and my tea cup grows cold on my kitchen counter 

This entry was published on July 2, 2017 at 9:15 am and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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