Sunday’s Hay Field

Rum and Robots

Photograph and Poem by Joni Caggiano

 

sadness is a raw wound wrapped in bandages
living in the thought of a picnic without dancing ants
a family carrying a basket with lost Sundays and sandwiches

listening to the radio, pretending to dance
bitter the old man who can no longer stand to eat corn
toothless, he remembers the river swallowing a closing glance

his son, innocent, had been whisked away
mother wren sang a song of inequality to her infant child
harvested wheat, like pieces of bound trust, what would Ruth say

tiny red boots thirst for the rain to play a game
rainbow dancing, colors smiling in puddles cooling skin
gray hair still smells of lavender, she smiles and jumps the same

she lived in a rum bottle with them as a child
but oh how tiny feet have spun time and ridden life
songs know her name and…

View original post 35 more words

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s