Southern Honey

Crystals of glass shimmer

like a stemmed globe in the sun.

Only classy people drink wine.

A sweet sting on my tongue

the cold air ripping through

pulpy cotton.

Like the sharp lingering smell

of fancy cheese.

The smoothness of an eye’s flutter

and hot brushed cheeks of nervous red

inviting him

to savor a punch.

We thought we were grownups in


Classy people aren’t the only ones

who drink wine

two kids playing grownups do, too.

We ran around like idiots

crumbling to the velvet

glazed sod.

Exhausted from laughing

we never had to say a word.

Mother Nature smothered his lungs

turned them to soot.

But we drift into the clouds when

it rains.

I have the charm of a foal.

We fall into spring skipping through

the prickly bristles of sunlight

painting our hair a tinge of grey.

Our puckered lips and tongues so fuzzy

with the bitter tang of golden honey.


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