we’ve grown so fat on vitriol, become reluctant on pointing fingers at those
not from our city, one we claim as ours as we look out windows of late-day buses.
pretty parts of town deny cries that echo within our dusty, unchanging hallways.
I’ve wondered what’s to come back for, just how far Scotch tape goes in fixing
cribs with splintered bars, too brittle to hold our discontent that no one could
ever empathize with, although they’re sweating too, palms slightly chapped.
dizzy trips home drop me off fifteen minutes early, spent off the last dime.
someone tells a stranger it can’t feel right to be this angry all the time, to wash your
hair with the same hand soap used to soothe fingers gone cold when it’s over
one hundred degrees outside, bad timing as your fever lives to rise like rude yeast.
protests on sticky notes flutter with pollen across everyone’s front yard, creased.
Cat No. 117 of the 500 Cats Project