Thursday, May 02, 2013

Posted by Laurel Garver on Thursday, May 02, 2013 No comments
My friend Gilbert
had the kind of face
you see on milk cartons
on rainy Thursday mornings
that puddle in your brain
without a grain of sense
or purpose but dripdrip drip.

Gil played games
that brought down bullies
to no-longer-larger-than-life lugs
we could look in the eye
and not cringe.

Gil’s games
made emperors of roaches
and elf queens of
bucktoothed, freckled girls
who are good at math
and can’t sing.

Gil’s thoughts
entered me like garlic
and permeated blood
and lungs and skin,
reeking and lusty of life,
lingering in the pores
for days.

© 2013 Laurel W. Garver. From Muddy-Fingered Midnights: poems from the bright days and dark nights of the soul, page 8.

Categories: ,

0 comments:

Post a Comment