The applause in the
trees
as they rustle in
the breeze.
The pain in the rain
as it
falls, dampening
the walls.
The troubles in the
bubbles
blown by summer
girls in curls.
The fun in the sun
browning beach
sands and lands.
The heat of the
street
cooking sandal clad
feet.
The time to make it
rhyme
so Sonya won’t
drown me
in ammonia or send
me to
Macedonia.
She’ll snicker,
She’ll snort,
She’ll sip her
liquor,
and contort.
Perhaps she'll be
sated
and I won’t be
weighted
with
this
poem.
There.
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