postmen sit in the grit of the burning city lights,
with a cigarette between chapped lips;
these men are the messengers
in the sweet honey heat of the summer,
slow molasses of sweat rolling off the foreheads
the fresh bite of apple, like firecrackers
enclosed in palms.
with a cigarette between chapped lips;
these men are the messengers
in the sweet honey heat of the summer,
slow molasses of sweat rolling off the foreheads
the fresh bite of apple, like firecrackers
enclosed in palms.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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