July

My brain is a gritty bike chain grinding in circles,

friction where there should be smooth pedaling,

well-oiled ease.

My face pinches into a squint,

jaws ache from clenching, keeping the words in.

 

My words would slap a person silly,

bloody his lips,

leaving them fat and lisping into next week.

My Pandora’s box is full of words,

none of them worth a damn, not a dime for all of them.

 

Fireworks have rendered us small.

We are a quivering creature hiding under a bush,

with one eye open

while every other part presses to the ground,

determined invisibility.

 

We are the bruised puff of kitten left outside

with the sky raining fire and breaking apart in thunder,

fragile resilience.

We are picked up and put into a silk-lined pocket,

a well-heeled ticket out, but to where, we wonder.

 

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