Click in the field, then press CTRL+C to copy the HTML code
The Saints of Your Joy
Your daughter’s body was sick today, and I could not
Help it
With the customers coming in and buying corn fifteen for
A dollar until my parents painted over the sign:
And we watched each other while I carted around the
Green island fichus and sang the sweetness of
The theoretical mountains I keep you in,
Your brown body having its own prominences the size of
Dolls,
And I have desires of buying a bicycle, or taking you on
My shoulders to the island in the center of the
Lake Worth Lagoon,
But I am happy now that you don’t have time to read
The lies I’ve been singing you- Your young daughter is sick
And needs your attention,
But Sunday is her birthday and I am going to be glad to work
Your shift:
I’m going to work hard to find the work you named her after in
Spanish:
Heidi is her name, and she is your daughter, and her world will
Soon heal and fill up with sweet things in the refrigerator
And with the saints of your joy.
poem
by
Bret R. Crabrooke
solid border
dashed border
dotted border
double border
groove border
ridge border
inset border
outset border
no border
blue
green
red
purple
cyan
gold
silver
black