Modal rhythm
bleats at this wood
pace, crushing
against our
feet.
The azaleas glare
on our foreheads.
Sun spots on yours.
Your eyebrows
on my face.
Genetic matrix
clots our throats
while we sweat.
That bandana
soaked in your
fifty-seven
year old fist.
Six pairs of
thick glasses
in your desk.
Saturday morning,
the choked gait
and road silence,
we go, go, go –
About the AuthorL. M. Bigbee lives in Birmingham, Alabama.
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