Typewriter poem

I wrote this on a typewriter
It is always all about love



Of course, I am not good at this either.

fortress

with the brother:
dead calf in dry creek, sinews
bulging milky cornflower eyes
on the way to tree fortress
trees grow anyways for chairs
green branches canopy
hidden from the rest

the father sighs:
I wondered what happened to her calf

and

with the sister and her friends:
picking berries off thorns
bushes in the middle
pathway between fields
sweet juicy plump berries
explode around the mouth
random sour, pucker

sitting on the hump in the middle
of the back seat of the car
between the sister and the brother

and

the pony who disappeared

the father whines:
it's not always about you, you know

and

the mother.                                   the mother.