the skyline yawns pink.
orange ice cream clouds drift by.
dusk is when all my tales begin.

I write poems with bleeding ink
the way a mother sends up
a prayer for a damaged daughter –
desperately.

I’m a dogeared leaf
out of a yellowed book,
brittle on the edges,
a lot like hope:
weary, blurry, and sarcastic.

my shoes are too tight,
which is to say, I don’t
want you to walk a mile in them.
if you can help it,
don’t walk in them at all.

but, pretty boy, with your
cinnamon eyes,
you make me smile.
I’ll let you walk in step
with me.