The Inbetween

Picking Flowers In My Neighbor’s Lawn How come my curiosity dares to be a martyr?

For the berries that glisten like fine rubies speak to me through my neighbors metal divide Daring my hand to snatch at them like a thief in the night, even when a lick could cause my throat to swell.

A power higher than mine has my will restrained allowing a moment to ponder “Were they ever sweet?”

Maybe if my neighbor Sammy would’ve fed his pitbulls the soil wouldn’t have become poisonous.

Striking the naive seeds before it could even hope to flourish, I won’t wallow in deafness to a sound command this time.

I’ll leave these kinds of flowers alone.

Even if the winter causes my stomach to curse at me for wasting a crumb, the berries would always be a valid waste for I know that hollow shells remain swallowed into the grass that now stands tall like the legs of storks.

Into the same grass that my brothers fed my training wheels to that ultimately made me learn how to ride my bike that summer.

I’m glad to have not eaten those berries, no matter how much my brother tells me how sleep will block out my stomach’s thunder.

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