Feeling mopey because of the many things that need to happen that aren't happening.
Here's my poem:
GLOVE
Handy to be known among natives, my first
vacation ended here, no traveler's check with
their colorful prints, historical faces telling me
the good times, like swimming and eating expensive
foods, fancy little things you're not supposed to touch
with your hands, all frivolity exists within the wallet,
stood bested with that empty wallet's moan. Call
my mom and dad, accept charges that I am not
what my childhood pretended I would become.
Only wanted the life of a garbageman. Noble,
wind in the face, jumpsuit. Feeling love for the contents
of that dark corner, walking by the shadow, knowing
lyrics to the funny song, the filthy side of this business
is feeling the full force of indifference; my cold nose
turns red on the roof.
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