Poem by Doniell Cushman
He's in his Wellingtons again
The ones with cut out handles
Digging into the earth
Avoiding the gas line
Talking to himself of "crunches" and
"Crashes" between Tonka trucks
Flying through the air in his
Soil caked under the fingernails
And dried into every pore or crevice
"Smash!" he grunts, then sweeps
the clods out between his legs
For a dusty bum will arise
And diggers dig-dig-dig before
a "super-crash super-smash"
Smash smash smash
Crouched in those Wellies
I need a bath just watching him
© Doniell Cushman. All Rights Reserved. This poem or any portion thereof
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All rights reserved by Doniell Cushman.