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Barbephobia

I'm not really a poet -- my need to point that out is in deference to several friends who are excellent poets.
I wrote this just for fun.

Barbephobia

Spit out of suburbia. A pervert child
with city leanings. A refugee
of Happy Days. I was uprooted
like an errant piece of crab grass.
Don't ask me, Love.

Your summer hair begins to kindle.
Is there some other act of fire
I can perform to please you?
Any but this.
You taunt me with the brightest coals
Then bid me wait
'til they are gray and ash,
And I alike.
Don't ask me, Love.

We'll draw the dogs. See how the scent
Of promise spirals. Don't ask me
To take part in backyard rites.


Copyright © Rachel Canon