Boom
box explodes with the wishy washy sound
of soap suds bursting
the volume was never
ever
loud enough for them.
Falling
leaves adjust to a new harder
reality, apples fall
cider strewn children sprawl
on roads not swept and lives not
ever
wept upon.
School
starts like little moving parts
of a paper aeroplane, confused, walking
in vectors driven by the heart (as if the
levers
had forgotten
latches, cogs to turn upon)
September
parts
October draws in, fingers limp with cold
in embarassinng
home-made
mittens that stink
of a beginning made wrong
, the end of the song.
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