by Sam Waszkelewicz

We sit on the porch
The cross-breeze rustles through us
As the cars drive by

Property lines drawn
Stacked stone fencing and bushes
Will outlive us all

Lanky tree limbs
Rise farther than eyes can see
Climb and never stop

Promise will want
Money is whiny
Beautiful world know me
Despite spurs
I am past a wreck
&
&

Sam Waszkelewcicz 

Sam Waszkelewcicz is a writer living in West Hartford Connecticut. His work has appeared only on scrap pieces of paper and notebooks that he tucks away in the back pocket of his Levi’s.