Blisters

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic


A combination of two true stories

Submitted: September 10, 2018

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Submitted: September 10, 2018

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A A A



Walking home from my job at the coffee shop,

One in the market in the center of town,

 

My feet have a quarrel with the stubborn concrete.

They hiss and they spit from my weight on the ground.

 

Flared up some blisters, piping hot and bulbous,

Big red balloons that just refuse to float.

 

No matter how deeply they sear me, I never lift only jolt,

And I’m left a salty landlubber bolted to the earth.

 

If only I had wings to carry me home

Over these skinny streets criss-crossing around,

 

Over cars spewing their brimstone smoke,

Into the acres of grapes and blue green flowers,

 

And watch the sulfur clouds fill even those outskirts of town.

 

Down here I’m only walking on the sides of swollen feet,

Hulking butternut squash, squishing juices on the street,

 

With toes curled and bowlegged steps,

Like drunken Elmer Fudd on the prowl in wabbit season.

 

And I hear a cop car’s siren a couple blocks away.

Might it be these steam whistling blisters trying to say:

 

I’ve still got about a mile more to go,

Still about a mile more or so,

‘til I rest my quarrel.



© Copyright 2018 noahshachar. All rights reserved.

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