MacDonalds

Raw as McDonald’s

Hannah Cook Poetry Leave a Comment

Call me Ronald.
There is no we,
only us.
I’s on me,
raw as McDonald’s.
Frozen, never fresh.
Salt stirs in wound,
not felt
thru puffy skin.

My big, red boots failed.
Oily skin torn off.
I’ll take the number two
pair in my heart, should I change?
should I break?

Happy pug in the car
laughing,
laughing at me.

I told a story
and you said
why can’t I focus on anything else?
Pull up to the next window.

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