Lonely Headlights poem by Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art

Lonely headlights are abound towards my mind and my heart. Why do we have to listen to them and their remorse? their tired yearnings, their weak stations of hatred. Pretending to have rivers of love vamped with anticipation. Make me wait. Make me want you and all of your red balloons that pop among the disappointed kept up animals, among fences of rough bark made of wood, not metal. Do they hear us and our woes while we look at their helpless bodies, unable to leave among weeds and water not under clouds and sunlight when they were born. Make a telephone call. Make sure the cord spins and winds up and down the mountain of remorse and sadness, which is what we deserve among the ponytails and rainbows. Please leave the socks of offensive suckers behind and tell me the truth about my fuzzy lovey Rufus. About us and you and maybe we but not me. The grass and trees portray the day. The night gets only unclear mist floating between the bark. Can we mark the bark that sounds the day? Or can we weigh the hay before it is sent in that shanty of slats and dismay. Where is the light of the day? can I be swayed? Please be rude and ill censored because that’s what I like. Please go to bat. By Margaret Leora Workman; Warponie Art