well, what have we heard

The town crier finds me slumped

over my own porch step at dawn

Don’t kick me when I’m down



my sorrow gurgling like a babbling brook



the bell ringing over the square

the bell curve

the curve of the glass

The curl of her hand

as she gentled shut the door behind me.

I wrote this as part of National Poetry Month this year, when I participated in a challenge to write 30 rough drafts of 30 poems in 30 days!

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