You came in like a storm on a farm.
And swept me up.
Leaving me like broken branches,
In the corn and
Panties from the clothesline in,
The neighbors oak.
4 a.m. was hot and sticky like syrup covered waffles.
Sweet, hungry little mouths chewing.
Swallowing pieces of one another.
Only to be left like cold eggs,
stuck to the bottom of a pan.
Only to wear a little less to be noticed.
Be a little sweeter to be wanted.
To still not be wanted hungry like before.
Because we have dried up like the mulberry in the tree.
We have become ritualistic,
Routine in our ways.