I beg for a dollar, but your pocket is cold.
The concrete carves a nest for invisible to hatch.
You don’t like the view from your window,
the trash is covering manicured grass.
I have skin and bone, a rusty heart, two degrees in math,
but I am lower than the pigeons shit-bombing your trees.
You roll me in assumptions, plastic bag me loser,
and fall into your smart phone shuffling selfies until
you have enough Photoshop to impress with a lie.
Never a question, never a word… I’m a paper bird
dressed in second hand waiting to be recycled.
It’s hard to learn how to fly in a sky made of concrete.
Comments
What math degrees do you have? That fascinates me. Do you use them? Talk to me in "Math"!
p.s. Generally I don't take the author as being tied to the writer, but do you have two degrees in math as Moxie asked? I have a very full math minor, through differential equations and then other regular or advanced math. Nine courses, 27 hours, at least. Possibly one more.
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You roll me in assumptions, plastic bag me loser
So good.
Love your writing as always, Susie.