A poem by
Josh Welsh
02/14/98
there's a whip-trip
sully little thing,
where the graveyard
birds sing,
the muddy water,
anti-freeze colored
with oil
and the dirty soil
is only as clean
as the skin it pollutes,tattered and ripped
hastily torn and clipped,
a ragged little thing crumples
in a sweaty palm
and now after the storm,
the calm,
of a child
laying in alley ways
on strange days,
knowing only his homemade valentine
is the only thing
the little child left behind.
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