It's these wordless days
That make me realize I am incapable of anything.
My laundry sits in a wet basket,
Breeding micro-organisms.
Umbrellas hurry by, afraid of forecasts.
I am incapable of gathering change,
The storm of metal that brews
Inside bulging pockets, begging to escape.
The sky, pouring out its grief,
Winds around the corner like smoke.
In the plaza of the park, I grasp for a cane,
But the bed's unmade and you never came.
It's these nights I feel no worth.
The sky gives birth, I hold its hand,
I understand, it lets out a reluctant scream.
Let me make my bed before I leave.
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