Perfectly Pretty Rains
Filling up on the resin of god,
The hateful spiteful mouths out of doors,
When they could care less,
Because they have them some bicycles and some
Good hands of cards,
And the sky is never judgmental:
The sky is very sexy all the time,
And you can fish so far into it,
And it is like a great exhibit of Spanish women,
Or girls name Sharon,
But it doesn’t cost a thing to stand and sit beneath her
And imprint her to your tattooed soul:
The sky doesn’t give a care if you are not beautiful.
The sky is always a prairie,
And the sky is a dog lover who has perfect breasts
And commercial airlines as chalices
And necklace:
I wanted to name the sky after you, but you just
Laughed and stole my breathe.
While in a coffin I surmised that you were even
Prettier than the sky,
I guessed and held on to the visage of you in the wild
Blue yonder,
Something untrue and wholesome for which to
Pine and ponder
Far into the afterlife, while the cars and chickens changed,
But the sky held on forever to its sunny days
And its perfectly pretty rains.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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