Ice Gin

Mother is not interested in me,
smoking her butt down to the final grind,
drinking her ice gin on the Balcony,
I’m a mosquito buzzing in her ear,
words unheeded bring on a stinging slap.
Her new man plays a mean game of poker.
Daughters are darlings in the other world.
Such a shiny ring offered me a ride,
California, a seagulls flight from here.
Away, the seagulls scream about a way,
A ride, and finally I trade in the
Hard South Carolina white and black sand
for the steep drop terrain of Western dunes.
Ever again, betrayed by the trusted.

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About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
This entry was posted in drama, poetry and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

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