shower poem #1207
I want to tell you my story
And make you believe my heart
(Forgotten)
softened overripe fruit withering drawing away and inside behind its hardened shell, bumpy and bitter
Waiting for a kind hand or imploring finger to enter the air pocket between my shell and my fruit and scoop me out before I’m altogether rotten.
Listen up, White man
The One
behind a gavel or a zipper, he knows that which is, Justice. she signs frantically, flapping hands
There is no interpreter for hire, though, so he hears
Nothing
390th Weekly Poetry Contest