Dear Jake,
When is Washington?
Love,
Ryan
Washington is in a warm drink.
We take it with us when we feel the dew soaking through our socks.
It is 4 o'clock.
It is turning in the squinting sidewalk man's belly.
It is a sneeze walking past plastic trees.
It is a mustache that isn't.
It is red sweat shirt girls buying yogurt in the self-check out lane in Fred Meyer.
It is in three empty pitchers and a teary eye remembering John Keister.
Washington is my appendix.
or more accurately
Washington is late August in a dusty corolla, if she makes it.
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My name is Jake Tucker, welcome to my poetry blog. Feel free to comment.
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1 comment:
this is really rad. I was going to write a "when is washington" poem myself after reading it, but I don't think I could do the question justice the way you did.
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