Saturday, November 26, 2011


Addy smokes too much and drinks his father’s
Eighty-dollar scotch like lemonade.
He crinkles his skin when he smiles.
Someday he’ll crack like peanut brittle.
We are our sugary selves,
Bees playing in honeycomb
The texture of confection -
Today I am red candy, raspberry jube
With the wings of ice, cooling lemonade.


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