I Fall Into Piles of Awe
Malachi Carter
September
The predecessor of November
An August rush to December
An omen:
oh men must toil.
As the weather makes you wither my father makes me work whether in want or whimper
Harvest,
Yard work,
Hard work.
I am just a child!
You lead me to fall,
Leave me in all
of these loads
of filthiness.
Mediocre to media’s foolish tricks.
Others my age might consider it mild
as they mend their piles
and jump.
So alive,
they must have different eyes;
not mine.
Brown as the layers of my skin, labors of my hands
Dirt, mud;
A flood from the trunk of a black Ford truck.
A pool of your debris only to be
a dump.
Piles in which I’d never wish to be dunked,
even still to this day.
But now, like you, my eyes change.
What was once brown now to rearrange
like you in hues of yellow, burgundy, and orange
Once shut, now open.
Shattered glass!
It hit me like a hammer,
the beauty of death.
Before I was
Coughing as the rake dug your coffin;
Now, not so often
or at all
But now in Autumn
I fall into piles of awe.