I wrote this in the early spring. It's all about Iowa's love affair with spring. Spring's an asshole.
Spring teases,
60 now 46.
He pulls out.
He spits in my face
Icy white flakes that tickle my nose
Silly pressing my forbidden space.
I let go of my place
and say
I hope spring loses
so he may.
Drip drop he dicks again
odors of creme coco
rotting leafs
fertile dirt
lilacs.
Shards of dreams touch
my tips in drawing of
melting snow.
Spring wins again.
I thought he would stray
at the first kiss.
Listening, my self service
served nothing but favor.
He thought he would stay at first kiss,
but inaugural doubts by the other led him away.
He pulls out. Cries. Walks away.
Drip drop tears fall in his muddy path.
Spring has his way.