He was a walking river,
with muddy bank flesh
and rain sluicing
into sediment eyes
Black pupils
sloshing,
the puddles left
by a late summer storm
too
warm.
The bends of him
were narrow
and hardly holding,
thin packed soil
eroding
beneath the constant press
of liquid
destruction;
He was already
flooded
when he stumbled
hungry
to my dull morning register
and
eyed rows
of nutrition information,
solid type
that he chewed
with quick biting blinks,
only to order
a beer
instead.
About the Creator
Teyana Jackson
An aspiring writer and poet currently living on the East Coast. More work can be found on allpoetry.com, thebluenib.com, and in the poetry anthologies "Circular Whispers" and "Seasonal Perspective"
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