Buckets

a porch, settled below a cloud

so high and out of

need of saving–

        these are his homes

 

please don’t be fooled

by cuts and abrasions,

blemished memory incarnate;

there are dreams underneath

 

familiar to few, these dreams

tap-tap-tap on his soul 

like rain-filling buckets that line

neighborhoods who can’t afford anything else

 

dreams of adventure and chance

swallow and dance 

around the self-preached potential

he’s failed to reach

 

so he sits, white-knuckled eyes

cling to clouds closer now,

and the rain tastes so sweet

on his porch-dried lips

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