Box-a-bed
Robin Bacior
The roof is peeling in the wind,
Exposing the ceiling as weak and thin.
Kind of like shoe soles you put through too many agains,
Burning bridges stood on through unforgiving ends.
With shelter blown astray, no cover for my head,
It’s just another sign home might be dead.
Just left with walls to box a bed,
Where we can lay, crack open our heads.
Here come all the legs,
Just tired blood in a haze.
They run the days right off the page,
The months scream for mercy.
New york chokes the cold,
Spring arrives in a hurry.
With shelter blown astray, no cover for my head,
It’s just another sign home might be dead.
Just left with walls to box a bed,
Where we can lay, crack open our heads.
Now planes can sew the coasts together,
But they’re hesitant to mend,
It’s string vs. Leather.
Here I am at the mercy of the weather,
Watching the rooftop depart.
With shelter blown astray, no cover for my head,
It’s just another sign home might be dead.
Just left with walls to box a bed,
Where we can lay, crack open our heads.