Rusty

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