the drops fall warm
like a resentful first kiss
placed crookedly on my lips
two broken children
dressed in archaic cloaks of sinful fathers
embalmed in summer rain
clasping hands in the park
you pointed at fancy bricks laid by FL Wright
your hero
we heard laughter from in the trees
we filled our heads with fantasy
of being greater than dirty jeans
booze coke
and motorcycles
what fools we were
but happy in our foolery
we’d stomp round town
wild haired green eyed queen
to her mohawked crowned king
while in the dampness of the night
we went our separate ways
on the dimly lit corner by House of Pies
to harvest broken proper mothers
up from their latest shag designer carpets
flown in from Rome
and as we punched our way through
explosive broken fathers
on Monday morning
we’d all pretend that our lives were wonderful