sundown in the suburbs

She talks of culture and poise with one hand,

while the other will curdle her wine glass.

It’s powerful, she says, to understand.

To live alone in the dark, one turns crass.

She walks with dignity sewed to her skin.

A walk I can’t fallow, so i pretend.

Her presence collected, lifting her chin.

The struggle in life is learning to bend.

I wish mamma, my hair was long like yours.

She combs my knots, brushing away my doubt,

before pursuing those perception wars.

She knows, I think, where her heart must devout.

In my gratitude, I shadow her sight.

Obliged and willing to what’s wrong and right.

In early years of innocence,

a heart is pure and time is bliss.

But restless nights and coffee stains,

criticize your deep refrain

from receding back into the dark.

To linger here with an absent heart.

These rolling stones arn’t building blocks.

Let them go, and take the shot.

My restless soul is a loaded gun.

Pull the trigger and watch me run.

I wish you could be more string steady.

Ask me twice, the third, I’m ready.

Tighten the knots and patch the seams,

of all the wounds made in your dreams.

Trip, then stumble over the truth.

Release the patience built in youth.

And when the bullet is finally fired,

smoke settles, stoic aspired.

And yet the leaves will fall the same.

The clouds will roll with sleet and rain.

Morning calls with a child’s voice,

riding bicycles, making noise.

In early years of innocence,

a heart is pure and time is bliss.