Sunday Poem

Humidity is a killer;
makes the mind sweat
and curl up like the
red-haired little girl’s
ribbon knots and the
tragic guts.

When the bliss is gone,
her hair draws a straight-up
line, and her eyes are
wide shut to the white
feather hats and all the

Her fingers move, her
lips donate him a kiss;
she flies for miles and miles
from an open window or
a closed door; who really
cares anymore?