The overcast sky compounded
with the gloomy autumn cold is filled
with chatter about things that are
out of our control. I am back home now,
wondering What are we supposed to do
with these things? It seems lessons
taught to young men by their fathers
are put on hold. Chasing dreams is a jog
kicked into marathon gear. We hop along
quietly, worried about the ration of our air.
Riding my bicycle through my old neighborhood,
my neighborhood once again, I notice
the bags under the high schoolers’ eyes;
the way their corpse-bodies drag,
dressed in clothes that self-motivate;
their nervous and analytical shoulder twitch
fueled by the shaky promises fed -- it will be better
by the time you are where they are, their finger
pointed slyly in my direction.
I swerve home, fighting against the wind,
and, finding myself alone, in my high school room,
I laugh maniacally. I can’t stop. My eyes squint
so hard, tears leak onto my cheek.
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