You dig your own grave, yeah, but it’s a life you can save.

I understand how badly you want a family.
Not an unusual desire.
The clothes, shoes, words, body language –
All conspire to make you fit.
Composite bits.

I know the pull of these things.
A reflection of the you that you don’t know,
Walking in circles on the highway,
Unaware of how many frogs you’ve squashed.

I see in your face the potential for violence,
For respect, for love.
Your way is explicit because I have eyes.
If I were blind, I’d maybe know you
By the sound attributed to your culture.
Maybe a subwoofer, a tractor engine, the sound of children,
Barking dogs, shouts, angry words.

I know the landscape of the neighborhood.
And you aloft,
A frond on the winds,
Lace dolled up into grass, into guts.
The greenest world dreamed into existence.

This can be tamed.
It can be taught.
Shaped, pummeled into something smoother.
Think too much and slow down
No need to be stationary any longer.
Pack a suitcase or something.
Forks and knives and gravy boats do not a table make.

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~ by Athena on May 7, 2014.

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