Is It Poetry
Her Dream and What It's Like
Some stains never wash completely out.
But my best friend's a girl some times his mother.
To protect her name we shall call her Mary.
She the center after words she would scrub.
Worn out by this never ending work,
her neighbor and his name.
Camisas for the soiled beauty but still neatly there.
Oiled and pompadoured an engineer for the railroad.
His wooden tie,
and this man who came to her rich country laying.
The wooden spikes she latter said, mile after mile.
Boiled was the center washed in lye.
Latter bleach in the wash and pain the bluing
Hand squeezed each and every rinse.
Rinse after mind numbing rinse.
The once red panties and that ripped torn shirt.
Always her metal image then emerged starkly white.
And gone innocence as angels.
Hard and black the dreams of iron spiked horsemen.
Of the Apocalypse, bearing spikes and crosses.
And my blood and roses, carried off like pestilence.
With them in that Spring valley of early yearly losses
Knowing that they knew the damage that would be done.
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