She paints awkward eyes
on rusted railway spikes,
plants them too deeply
in broken terra cotta pots,
waters them sporadically
with the dregs of stale beers,
waits in anxious anguish
for the blossoms of Paris.
She paints awkward eyes
on rusted railway spikes,
plants them too deeply
in broken terra cotta pots,
waters them sporadically
with the dregs of stale beers,
waits in anxious anguish
for the blossoms of Paris.
Donna Dakota in Word 