By: Wendy E. Braun

The taste in the cotton folds
of the pillowcase,
damp drool stained
scent of unwashed hair and sweat.

A cry for something,
someone or maybe
just the high hopeless notes
that fall in alleys
like trees in that empty forest,
ripples of a voice
that can’t be placed…

Only the weight of it,
like an old tin soldier,
whose red paint is
chipping in your hands.