A SONG FOR SOUTHERN SUBURBS
Our king’s cross-eyed crystals
Dangle from a whistleporch, a windchime.
Sun setting grape, orange limeade paper-
Cup. Runeth away, old-war kettle polished silver.
Tipsy sour tea, sat out too long. Damnit.
Fetch granny her crystal, boy. Glass hips, these.
Rose hips, once grew dingy in a den o’ mine.
Slick denim haircut, cigarette gas-stove stain.
Daycare for sick dogs. Sick dogs?
Joshua James’ Hue is blue and burgundy.
He’s a wineaux.