The next poem I write will have a salmon colored boulder that draws attention from
the unkept weeds in the front of the house,
a boulder which does not know it got its color from an impatient painters daughter.
The next poem I write will show a hand built
twenty-foot garage that even though was meant
to make parking easier, now holds equipment that
are nothing more than memories of a life before responsibility and child support.
The next poem I write will be held up by a rusty red
wood fence that serves as a painful warning and
reminder that one mans best friend is another dogs lunch. There wont be a small room where a childhood ended because of seeing how two-faced a loved one could be.