Ford Pickup
| filed under: Poem, Chris Abraham, Pomes, Poetry, Writing, Creative Writing, Poet, Poems
Love it. I don't remember if I lived it.
The day runs away
through the clouds
onto the green lawn
outside the house
Three birds sat there
looking rather hungry
so Frank shot them with
pellets until one lay
dead.
We threw it into the
bed of a red pickup
It was still there last
week when the trees began
to give off steam, the
Ford abandoned to bird shit.
Crumbly white and black
Clay lumps, smearing like
Chalk, leaving dusty trails.
We often skidded in the
Gravel and fell on our
knees, losing skin to bone
standing up, dusting off--
resiliency. It was our
bodies that felt young but
not our noodles, they felt
sharp and cagey like the
scary old man who always
caught our pranks