Come spring
And sweep the streets
With my ankles
In the gutter
And knees stuck thick
In fresh wet cement.
I don't pray,
But I'll beg
Until I bleed
In front of the house
You abandoned just
Twelve weeks ago.
But why not look pathetic
And sick drunk
With this infection,
Spreading quickly from
My blushing hands
That brushed your waist
As we walked in the cold.
You are young
And I am old oak
That splits in summer's breeze,
And falls to mark
The trail that leads
Us both away from home.
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