Ten Years Old, Reading In Bed
From a blanket, the boy built a palaceWith a flashlight for a chandelier.
Down a rabbit hole, he followed Alice,
Where the cursing and shouting weren't clear.
He lived stories of courage and malice,
While the old man chased bourbon with beer.
Riding with horsemen north out of Dallas:
Thunderous hoofbeats would not let him hear
The plotless rage and whiskey diction
And the chaos always conquered by fiction.
-Book of Counted Sorrows
posted by justin @ 12:02 PM
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