Movement

Would that I could

I cannot

they take polaroids on the camera chained to the bench

and angels gather around me;

I swat at them because I am trying to write

and there are always miracles interfering

with what I’ve got to get done.

It’s hotter outside than it’s been

in hours,

my dress sticks, releases, clings, hangs

like a child to it’s mother

and I swat at my dress,

like it was my child.

The air inside dries out all of our

glasses, (until the foam

is sap stuck to some non tree compostable)

necks,

crooks behind knees.

No one could tell me

from a successful adult right now.

No one will ask me for an extra napkin,

or a spoon.

They have put the camera down

and are still posing.

One angel slaps the back of my neck

and laughs.

It is not too hot to fight back,

but I am too slow.

The same man who looked like

that other man I looked

up to is carrying something important;

fast.

Important things happen all the time.

I don’t have to remember the timeline

to tell the truth.

It gets colder inside.

I should hop on my bike.

Should remember why I came.

Should keep sending those same messages

with the same pair of shoes

to the one

who will write back

and leave the letter

unopened

in a country I’ve never been.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in Poetry, Summer, travel. Bookmark the permalink.

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