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Comments about Ricky Watson
Journal Entry 34
A rust born screech
As you closed the moss green door
Of your father’s pickup.
Long locks stranded along your face sunk
In the ruts of bitter trials.
Torn dukes and high boots without a care
Of the stares burning holes through the denim.
All the times I've imagined myself in them
You stood and studied your face through mine
Pale transformation, as I tried to hide
My concern behind a bouquet of wishes.
I journeyed the distance
Five steps to your entrapment
In mud and summer rains.
Stems and petals dancing in the breeze.