Chipped MAG

April 21, 2010
By Audrey Cassady BRONZE, San Francisco, California
Audrey Cassady BRONZE, San Francisco, California
2 articles 0 photos 0 comments

The town you live in
Is chipped
The blinds on your window
Are missing a few boards
The brick you walk your dog on
Pops beneath your feet
Even your dog only has
Three legs
And still barks at the mailman
Who never finishes his rounds
Because the ground is too hot
The sun fades out the dark
And colors in the light
Your eyes never adjust
To the light from the Chinese lamp
In your basement
Because of the reds and yellows

The town you live in
Reminds you
That your memory
Exists only in mosaics
You don't remember
Names
You don't remember your first bike
Or riding it.
But occasionally you're reminded
That you used to have coffee with a young woman
Dressed in a nightgown
Had a long nose
Always sunburnt
With steam dripping down her chin
As she talked, you listened
And don't recall what she said
It was something important then
That isn't important now.

The town you live in
Is chipped
And you're kin to it
Your missing teeth
Hair drizzling dandruff
Makes you look off center
Of the places
That use starch in their laundry
And sugar in their tea
Who cut green grass
And eat chilled peaches
Between manicured fingers
You gnaw crab apples
In dry fields of grass
Tank top stuck to your belly
You wonder about these things
An occasional thought
There is no linear pattern
In a world of jagged edges


The author's comments:
When we have lost everything that made us feel whole and substantial, this is what we become

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This article has 1 comment.


on Feb. 24 2011 at 2:22 pm
RileyJameson SILVER, Winnetka, Illinois
5 articles 0 photos 5 comments

Wow this is so great! I LOVED it!

 

 



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