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.


About m.a. wood

writer, thinker, musician, teacher
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