The tears come hard and fast
mimicking the sound
of the sheets of rain
blowing over the cab of my truck.
They pool in my lap
and get cold running down
my legs, in my shoes,
cheeks caked with salt
from the crying,
wind chasing tears
from the corners of my
eyesockets.
And all I can do
is keep my head in my hands
and ask: why?
why?
why?
Playing Hardball
Posted: November 14, 1993 in PoetryTags: Cry, Eye, Rain, Salt, Shoes, Sound, Tears
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