The soft cotton highway,
Long silver collections and
Free floating flesh, our
Fingers and unpainted nails.
Burning bricks tar and mortar,
My heart neatly packaged beneath skin caged bones,
More tightly woven than Mary’s antique sewing machine,
Needle hitting fabric.
Hey Dad it’s Nick,
Does the bipolar lady still live in the cottage next door?
I miss the burning cigarette ash conversations over dry stained highways,