My style rusts as fall’s fallen leaves do,
Out of practice, out of shape,
It squeaks like swing sets,

Not that you can hear it
Because you’re pretending to be an airplane
On the squeaky swing set
Rusty like the sky’s kissers
The trees

And now my mane tethers my nape,
Past my bust strap, down,
pulling my head up from the weight it bears
when cleansed by rainwater or showerhead,
Either or, doesn’t matter

My voice honks like horns, bells, cows,
Rusty, scratched, sick,
I can’t even read this poem to myself
Whispers only do the trick