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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2200739
Rated: E · Poetry · Drama · #2200739
Birthdays never last.
I have runaway dreams making me young again,
especially when ma puts it in writing
with how old are you on cake.
At my party everyone is in the running for the door
where full-time brush salesman always knock knocks twice on wood,
tooling his trade despite being made by our dog
whose keen to all his bells and whistles.
He had one foot in the door, peaking my interest as the air beats down,
hot while fan blows him off with blades giving the run around.
He gets the brush-off with in your face grring.

Outside, my family tree gets a torching where black cherry smoke burnt blossom
looking like I feel, stumped at being real.

Today walkway was a runway for flasher opening coat showing skin,
he ran away before ma clipped him on the chin.
Thank god for flowers, they rose against cheeks turning red,
blocking my view of that fool again.

Warmed up sun is just getting started when I met a boy and his guitar picking its own way,
working the crowd in a face lifting smile with a lyrical pull for me,
singing "Happy Birthday".


The End.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2200739