Shoebox Road

nevermind the cute poetry.
just go get the knife.
and heat it up if.

you can have my torso,
but you can't have or keep my heart,
not anymore.

the time has come
to allow the rain to
wash us away.

no more words
that go unheard, unheralded;
no more wasted paper.

we are told from youth
that love will triumph,
but what if love just leaves?

then it is time
to find newness and air

just over the hill,
past the prime rib,
you will find me.

I will be laughing
with new love
in new shoes.