There is a spry middle-aged Tabby
in my neighbor's lawn..
who suckles at the vines
and broken limbs dangling from an
old rickety-wooden fence.
Frailty..holding the roots of
something long ago established..
futility teeted' for nourishment
or simple folly..
Big, hairy snouts or teeth or jaws or
whatever the fuck you wanna call them..
and ol' rugged vines...
rubbing against one another for something pure
is a fresh, unsanctioned tattoo..
a Friday night..
a Sharpie stencil..
a shaky hand..
a roommate's sweaty brow and backwards cap..
Sailor Jerry murals and large orange-as-fire-tigers..
the kind that frightened Blake..
are pink guts and large black snakes..
shady dealings and free rides..
free reds and greens and yellows..
all ready for the bloodstream..
and the knee hardly twitches,
when the needle pierces the skin w/ those 40 gauge hands..
at last are 3 Japanese cherry blossoms
and only 3 are free..
one for you..
and one for me..
and one for the soon to be..
Frankie Metro lives in Clearwater, Florida and is 27 years old. He mainly writes prose but has written poetry, fiction, and delved into other genres of writing for 14 years. He is a former English Pre-Teaching Major and Minor in Sociology and a huge Arthur Rimbaud and Henry Miller fan.