Birthday Washup

I hung on to wishes belated
in a dreamland with hair dyed
green like an unsure teenager
or like the summer hills crying.

When the games are rid of politics
they cannot be won by words
when the yard is empty of people
it is filled with flooding birds.

In a vigil of heat and hunger
stripped of most of my fatalities
strapped to comets and asteroids
all my parts and tender proclivities.

There is no economical nirvana
only cheap survival strategies
until you’re old enough to wash
up on the beach of apostrophes.

Finally tasting cured seaweed
picked up like interesting driftwood
I could hear the sharks I escaped
wishing me a salty birthday.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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