Red Knuckles

We sit on front porches snapping raw spaghetti with our teeth;
we hold our heads straight, focused on gray looking not in each others' faces.
There is no anthem screaming at our hearts from car stereos-
we apologize, there's nothing left
to shout about.
We adjust our steel arms, steel legs, the air cool metal,
fingers resting in between folded papers.
We jolt and recoil,
falling into heaps again,
our hipbones braced to the concrete.

We sleep with eyes open,
black circles,
and we are not alone

A page remains unturned.
We watch in silent prayer.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback