Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Agent

Cash in-hand 
and
—sprinting

for an iced 
tea down
the street—the sun's
ablaze 

and I 
am shrinking,

thinking— 
whom do we 
pay 

for such
radiant days?

My money's 
on all these
little finches 

darting—holding
up the sky 
unflinching—

I don't 
know—they just seem to sell

the whole thing well.

No comments:

Post a Comment

HOW DO YOU FEEL?