Sweating Ginger

why is it that the old man made me cry

folded body as he steps to reach his crutch

travelling at arm’s length distance

His eyes, a modest matte.

 

why is it that I wanted you to know

why it was the old man made me cry

so bad, I would have made it worse

If just for you to pat me dry.

 

why is it that I didn’t tell

what it was, I wanted you to know

wet-mouthed, I knocked-knock ginger

Out of your sight, my throat: still sore.

 

why is it that I wouldn’t tell

of growing old, soft scuffling feet

no extravagant promises

Only, the stumbling fits.

 

why is it that I tell you now

why it was I didn’t tell

about the man that made me cry

about your door that made me knock

 

About my ginger kiss.

About your lemon loss.

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