I’m bum-gummed, withdrawn.
Embarrassed, head low hung.
Bedridden and phone un-rung.
Plugless socket, wet fingers un-stung.
His quote’s formed, well done.
Lines of growth, prosper,
appreciation of where he’s come from –
Parallel to my jealousy,
tuneless siren of my unsung melody
angry cries of ill-fated hereditary
Reason, intent, justice against
the nonexistent innocent
herd of humans – scattered
haphazard across land, water,
and air that only half of us
can afford to breathe.
Low quality oxygen, but Balenciaga shoes
we dance into rings crafted of
pride and ego and battered baby blues.
Who are you? A mother, a child, a partner
in crime against the soil between
your child’s tenaments of misuse.