In this season,
Of dusty red hair,
Callused palms
Torn heels
And black now brown shoes
yawning for a wipe,
I hate to dress so smashingly.
In this season
Of vaselines and lipglosses
When the wind is heralded
By a tornado of dust
I hate to walk on that street
Where I once admired tree petals.
In this season, my dear, I
Make no jokes,
Truncate my laughter,
And smile shyly
In the timidly fashion of a new wife.
In this season
Of cattarh and cold,
I hate to fall sick.
Thick brown phlegm
Coughed out of dusty dry lungs.
This is a season
Of fallen leaves.
Dry shriveled petals
Of those once blossoming flamboyants
I run my tongue on my lips
To avoid same fate as the poor petals
And this loveless soil,
Gets hardened and sapped
Of all liquid within.
But, in this season of dryness,
I love to do laundry.
The clothes dry with the speed of Flash
And grasses that once sashayed
In the courtyard
Need not be mowed anymore
Because they are dead!.jpg)
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