it's getting too hot to think

I crave a frantic heart

I step into footprints like familiar shoes

wind flicks a dead leaf, old paint curled

I don’t know the what and I’m forgetting the why

when I die someone will be paid to blanket me with earth

and they’ll exchange the money for macaroni laundry detergent unripe

bananas a creeping credit card bill talk about life after death talk about

monument talk about

a fly tastes the skin of my dominant arm.

Reviews

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

I enjoyed this somewhat dark poem that speaks of death in a different view. Thank you for sharing this poem of yours.

[Daniel Atkinson]

You're absolutely welcome, and thank you for taking the time to read it. Much love to you

[Relic]

This is great writing. The gravedigger has turned indifferent to death and the mundane act of burying in order to make a living. The last line gave me chills.

Awesome writing.

[Daniel Atkinson]

Thanks a ton friend, seriously means a lot