Launch Pad

Bird by bird the sky is leaving.
P. Lawler.

The smile is a quick thing to catch in its departure
always a sort of tennis match with toy rackets and pleasantry birdies
that feather shuttle has to fall from the nest tree sometime
and scuttle away before the weather drops again
sweaters just won’t cut it this time, rain boots
are more utility than a homecoming parade rileing support
the storms keep adding extra knuckles to my hands
so the quill she gave me doesn’t tickle pink anymore
it sits in a drawer under a window the high
schoolers walk past in their team colors
the toothy grins flying back and forth
among them almost softens the ache of the wisdom
tooth I ought to do something about. A tree is turning late
at the end of the road. The nest branch in hand is a knee jerk from dust.

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