Generations passing


If you're passing through

I don't really mind

If you take my clothes -

Just hang them on the line.

Place your window in my wall.

Surround me with a glance.

Surrender for a dance.

Backpocket stubs and bottom drawers

Beckon finger trips and mental slips

So bleach my sky, open my lips

And, please, no starch with my shirts.

Carter B. Horsley

Next Poem: Gimme

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