I want a banjo

The end.

Indigo Shells

A doorknob unravels,
conscious of lingering shelter.

Rattling and rusted
panels quiver from solemn sighs.

Metal velvet screeches its protest against
careless architecture. Hitchhiking across,

translatable astrology imparts stories
from freckles crumpled in

indigo shells
smuggled and swelling into a dusty radiance

at gundown.
Lay your sun down.

Twenty One

Bright eyes playfully duel existence as the bouquet
of faces coo thoughtfully over the shoulder of 1988.

Giggles. Laughter. A joyful holler.
Tick tock.

Morning dew slumps in the early afternoon,
dripping glistening thoughts into the ground

upon which tiny feet tromp.
Tick…tick…tick tocks the conductor’s

tongue. Everything is wrong. Surreptitious.
A mother’s smile. A proud father’s nod.

The haze reveals our rib cracking hearts
from delicate memories no longer attached.