Fred Aiken Writing

blossoming fevers pillowing out over a drab and dreary night
lulled into a false sense of confidence spelled in rectangular cursive badly drawn
on a bleeding chalkboard with rust-colored paint dripping

out into the bleachers sitting in the rain while the game waits
for the audience to start
but no one showed up to watch because they all passed out from exhaustion

after spending 30 years in the mines/mills/refineries/fields/warehouse/haberdasheries
because haberdashery is fun to say
but easier to misspell