Poetry Bulawayo

I was a little boy, tad hillbilly son, patterned then in present tense, hardly old enough tall enough to work nor notice if I had pubic hair- large or small endowment growing up self-conscious about short comings narrow chest. Just a teen aged nighttime boy looking 4 a part-time hook up- little girl play, with a five-card stud. Preacher daddy raised me, back-seat Christian boy low on faith high on doobie rolled cigarettes. I took my 1st job, pancake flipper @ Heart Attack–Greasy Grill, 24-7 pocket coins 4 tips, a few greasy dollars, pancake short stack, secret menu was that boss’s daughter, blood on hands, my bun busted now stale, stained, & baked. Eliminate lines unessential: waitress injected me some spice old time recipe.

Image -  https://13isyourluckynumber.wordpress.com/ she rolls over and sighs in her sleep a song of distant cherubs such a tiny, slight sound the sound of the sun rising. she reaches for me instinctively slips soft hands into my worn palms, fingers that feel too old.