Saturday, August 23, 2014

Snow flurries in August. It must be Montana.

I miss those hot summer nights of  youth. The tools have changed but the game is the same

Under the moonlight
or the streetlight
The desperate youth
feel the draw of the final
hopes before the fall
like moths battering the porch light
Feral Kids
wandering the streets
Texting their desire
under the stars
Chasing the last
hot moist days of summer
and hormonal

sirens call.

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