Idaho

My weekend sings, in this time of plenty, especially on my tiny wings, betrayed by our bones, can’t anyone see, the yellow light of fall, I am dancing on strings, It is a cruel destiny, a terribly fragile thing, we call time our own, beneath an early rising sea, but some of us drown, smell of diesal that clings, I hate blue Mondays, fire distinguishes me, act up play the clown, reject all flag waving schemes, take holidays for a month, my sweet solitary’s.