RadariG rakes of many sizes
line the shelf of gold
but my father, he prizes
the old one that's oh so old.
I try to throw it away
but he just puts it back
in the big pot of clay
next to the big bike rack
I wonder why he cares
but I really wonder
how that old rake fares
the seasons without blunder
misstree hands trembled, fingernails wedged deep
with dead flesh, dead now but just living,
blood becoming sticky.
hands trembled, deaf to the screams
from the mouth, framed with twin tribal licks of scarlet.
what's it to you?
who go