Wash Away the Poet in Me
by J. V. Foerster

    Wash my feet mother
    of the juicy green
    fresh mown grass
    of the dusty lane
    corn field dirt
    that was so silky soft
    brown sand.
    Wash them, please, back to innocence.
    Time for clean stiff sheets
    and little girl long legs slide
    in-between cool cocoon.

    Cry yourself to sleep mother
    for the long drawn out years of waiting
    for your daughter to be
    a cheerleader, an innocent,
    the sister you tried to create on your own.
    Tell me, mother, were there years you
    smiled?






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