The fuse-lit bomb that's just gone off in front of you.
The damage is arbitrary. You just dust yourself off and put your head back on.
You shake it off, look forward to later
when you're packed shoulder to shoulder
in a line with your friends
singing; you don't mind the wait.
You stay up late in good company.
Playing seventh grade honesty games
and watching too much T.V.,
You fall asleep in a pile like puppies without the fur,
You sleep in, covers discarded in the summer heat.
You wake up to noontime sunshine,
"Days are only rumors we've wasted. Have a good one."
© Copyright 2009 Abby Almon