on our used dishes,
strewn about on gritty counters —
numbing dribbles of November drizzle
at first,
then hard pellets of hail
that shattered our charity-bought crockery.
We were clever, then —
read books,
studied words and symbols
(they would eventually tells us to turn our backs on these and find real jobs) —
but this, we failed to comprehend.
They offered no other explanation
than empty upturned pockets.
1 comment:
"numbing dribbles of November drizzle" - teehee! I love the alliteration here. I keep repeating it in my head.
This poem is so brief and heartbreaking, like waking up to an empty bed. I love how you line up the shattering crockery with the shattering dreams. Everything feels so naively optimistic, full of youthful zeal. And I absolutely love the final lines with the "empty upturned pockets." So simple...and yet too weary to be devastated. Love it.
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