buried alive
it’s springtime in this sad little
corner of the world
where lemon seeds struggle
to germinate
and once colorful tulips decide
this is not their year
it’s cold and wet outside
or so I’ve heard over the airwaves
it takes little effort not to look
outside these shaded windows
except of course when sirens scream by
followed by dogs barking
and gunshots going pop pop pop
there is no internet connection here anymore
I ripped it out of the wall weeks ago
ever since I’ve been fingerpainting by day
and rummaging through wine cellar by night
humming petty songs and determined
to finish off the cask of amontillado
april two thousand eighteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
