I was buried alive in a piece of ground that was no longer there; ground down by the weight of a giant sitting on my back as its flesh packed in around me, the sound of my shallow breath with nowhere to go now but back in my lungs, squeezed up to my ears — the muffling effect it had on my cries to dig me out.
The shovel in my hand was useless, lifeless, packed in the same. You saved me at Jefferson that summer day, one of the few times I looked death in the sockets and panic reigned — rained cats and dogs the electric rain adrenaline that pumped through my veins and I thought that bonded us in the gravity graven upon the moment.
Soon after I washed that Detroit dirt away in the pool some friends liked me for you became one of those that left me behind; they all did — Steve, Matt, and Ernie, my blood, and I was cold and buried again but this time I was alone.
This is my attempt to write a New York School poem for today’s NaPoWriMo prompt. It doesn’t sound very poetic to me, but I like the view from the window.