Yard Sale of Thoughts

Back door ajar,
keys in the console of
the hatchback car.
Our love awaits hijack;
besides, it never went far.

A lap around the block.
Light on the end of an empty dock.
Two cracked buoys
making the post knock.

Fasten your seatbelt,
vinyl over bare skin.
We play our favorite numbers
never thinking they will win.

Tortured by a tickle,
flimsy and plume-thin.
Love this apathetic
should be forbidden.

© 2023 | K. Hartless

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