Lawn clippings,
gasoline,
worn cowboy hats hung neatly,
boots polished and ready,
a farm boy, a miner,
smells of his broom closet,
long gone.
Emily©
The Melancholy Spitfire
my voice through poetry
my voice through poetry
Lawn clippings,
gasoline,
worn cowboy hats hung neatly,
boots polished and ready,
a farm boy, a miner,
smells of his broom closet,
long gone.
Emily©
