deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Bugle Plays Sayonara
A faceless mother's kiss,
vanishes , her embroidery box,
once filled with yellow jackets
and bennies it's quantity sufficient to satisfy anyone,
sits empty,
Splintered arbor leans, over
new harvest of cabbages,
layers of ugly paint sloughing
off like dead skin,
told of the umteen times
she had attempted to beautify
this garden space
In the distance a bugle plays
the tune Sayonara as mother
surfaces, outside the dalapidated
white picket
Her face looks up to the
checkered sky screaming
at the rays that fade,
her sun bleached kimono.
vanishes , her embroidery box,
once filled with yellow jackets
and bennies it's quantity sufficient to satisfy anyone,
sits empty,
Splintered arbor leans, over
new harvest of cabbages,
layers of ugly paint sloughing
off like dead skin,
told of the umteen times
she had attempted to beautify
this garden space
In the distance a bugle plays
the tune Sayonara as mother
surfaces, outside the dalapidated
white picket
Her face looks up to the
checkered sky screaming
at the rays that fade,
her sun bleached kimono.
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