DEEP POCKETS

Under the skin, a motor of sound.

Molasses fingertips play dark thick jazz.

Wet soaked dirt roads kick

start the aroma of his thoughts.

Smooth perfumed skin smiles into his lust.

His mile of strong words runs like

a river engine; a power few own.

A wind moves on a sweet green growing

field. His youth, shoeless, fills his

pockets with songs.

He opens the rich burden of giving,

without taking back.

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