the sun always invites himself in in the morning
picking up the half-empty p.b.r. cans
and judging the full ash tray
he judges the obscure notes
on crumpled-up sheets of paper
he judges the rotting food
and the air
that tastes like leftover sex
and unbrushed teeth
he judges the fist-sized hole in the wall
and the painting that fell down
during the world war of last night
now gone cold
he doesn’t get it
he’ll never understand
the happiness that we allow ourselves
when his back is turned
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012
Ahhh poor guy. I love the line “and the air tastes like leftover sex” it is a wonderfully descriptive sentence.
Thank you. I like this one.
Me too.
If I was the sun I would refuse to start the day under such circumstances.
That sounds like a good night…
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Reblogged this on Renato Vasconcellos David and commented:
From the prolific Brice Maiurro
I loved it!
Thank you!