Updated: Dec 8, 2019

Friday died on a Sunday

Ignoring sore persistence,

She chose to saddle up.

Like the cowboys of her paintings

And the one that’s in the shrub.

Friday loved her children,

Doting on them and their kids.

She taught the them that the world

Doesn’t always rhyme.

It churns and shifts and laments,

Save for the lingering of Norskie moments

With those inside your heart.

Friday loved to talk,

Conversing through the night.

To hear her speak for hours,

Of the abuses of power and wealth,

Was a pastime unto itself.

Friday loved the fragrance

That comes from taking time.

Never in a hurry, yet never stuck in line.

She smelled of menthol cigarettes

And the aroma of her warpaint.

Friday loved purple.

For grapes and lavender petals.

The trim upon her house.

The color of her sweater,

That always smelled like home.

Friday died on Sunday.

#poetry #poems #arts #Landeros #purple #rhymes #cowboys #curbsidepress

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