Native Intelligence (Day 287)

He comes and goes 

under cover of darkness, 

even on a sunlit day,

the soft click click click 

of his bike gears

often the only sound 

giving him away 

when he wheels it, 

scowling and stomping, 

under my window

because he does 

not like to work.

It’s a shame, really, 

considering

his native intelligence, 

uncultivated and neglected, 

despite the myriad 

advantages that 

ripened and fell, plum-like,

onto the green grass 

around him while 

he idled on the lawn 

outside the modest but clean

white vinyl-sided house

where he grew shabby

and thick with weeds. 

His few friends--

partners in crime, 

his mother joked 

each night when he came in

--might have considered 

his descent a warning, 

had they grown up

in a town worth 

staying in--or even 

a town worth leaving.

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: TheoLeo via Pixabay 

Jump high the stairs (Day 274)

jump high the bleached and splintered stairs

today was so many no’s and don’ts

and now the children are poison darts

and now she come here and just give me a hug

no really that’s what she said

the parents know that water’s good

and beating on the window 

set the crickets down with heavy sun

squeaks and whistles rattling every tree

i won’t back up ‘til the battle’s won 

and here I sit

come on let’s go out front ‘cause she’s only five 

or ten minutes away

(c) 2017, by Hannah Six

Image: KRiemer