Ground Rules – Poem

Thank you for knifing the soles so that

texture would safen the walk on hills

like these where San Franciscan’s talk

on wet days, yak yak, when a man’s pink

skin is hidden under hoodies and

almost safe, but the earth stays

slippery and dangerous.  I wasn’t wearing

shoes.  You asshole, you knifed my feet.

Here’s the kick, I’m no kerchief, no

skirmish you can run into

and out of.  I won’t curse or

recreate you, but I’ll remember.

Next time, I’ll be boots.


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