Roses’s Sestina

Rose’s Sestina

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It was July. Trees were green.

Grandma sat on the porch smoking

and arguing with Pop about forever.

Although, there isn’t much to tell a grown man,

they learn lessons best from time.

I resented her for wasting words.

I only love Jesus more than words

and on occasion sticks of green

that help me pass the idle time.

Aaron approached the porch smoking

a black and mild one finger over the cigar like an old man.

After a brief pause he hit play. It began again our forever.

Sitting in my windowsill I often dream of our forever.

I could love him my whole life. Words

come easy when we’re alone. He’s my man

I’ll stack for us, I’ll share my pile of green.

Aaron is something special smoking

hot he looks up into my window smiling, it’s time.

I smile too, birds chirp and violins play. It’s our time.

I clean up a bit still thinking about forever.

Grandma yelled up “Girl! He out here, still smoking.”

No smoking allowed inside. The black bought me time.

Peaking down again we caught eyes. He’s wearing that shirt. It’s green.

I looked away, heard shoes on the stairs, then a knock, there he is my man.

He asked, “How are you? It’s time.”

I laughed “I know. I don’t know a lot but I know my man.”

I lowered the shade as Grandma nosily looked up green

with envy. We melted quietly into forever.

No need for words. No need for words.

We put out the fire and left the room smoking.

I raised the shade. Grandma still outside smoking.

No reason to be embarrassed he’s my man!

We put to rest sounds and motions, waking up language and words.

He yawned, “I have work later.” I inquired “What time?”

There was a time limit today on forever.

The sweat turned the lime sheets dark green.

I love words more than time. Even when it’s smoking hot in July, he is cool as a March shower my man. And as far as forever goes, we’re parked at the light waiting for it to turn green.

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Windy City

Waiting to be heard you never will be. This is dedicated to the Windy City.

Ill I know it is.

Seeking light in darkness.

Vacant playgrounds, swings screech in the wind, empty again.

Pop, pop, pop!

The fire’s out, replaced with firearms.

Cardinals nest in the park no song in their hearts.

Black and brown beating each other black and blue,

brainwashing me and you.

The screams of inevitable sirens.

To adapt is to stay strapped.

No one loved or hugged him.

He turned to thuggin.

Dubs and clubs.

Drugs and thugs.

Locked in and left out.

Eyes wide open but many still asleep.

Nothing in this world is fair.

The wind off the water turned neighborhoods cold.

Will hate and violence ever grow weak and old?

Old enough to live, too young to die.

The murder. The Burial. Then life resumes.

The only thing affordable is free doom.

Mother’s cry, gone too soon.

Tears in the frozen rain.

Aimless violence, unspeakable and senseless.

What will our legacy state?

What happened to the revolution?

Ill I know it is.

All this hate and crime.

What will be left behind?

What will be left?

What will be?

What will?

What?

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