I’m bum-gummed, withdrawn.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  

law. 

 

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.