Speak wide. Mouth of a tunnel.
Brush shoulders like we’re comrades.
Beat the beats of cult fiction.
Believe friendship is a staple.
It’s a dirt we share.
Ever barefooted the huddles of the city?
Our eyes both swallowed the disease.
“Life is a currency, yes?” Experts say.
“Agony is business.” Ibid.
Let’s talk culture and drink beer.
VIPs don’t buy words. Not from copper pages.
A brown woman is a brown woman.
A black woman is a black woman.
The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.
It’s a rhetoric they teach.
And yet, we brush shoulders. Anisometric.
Like when we’re tots. You are winter. I am summer.
Eyes fixed on one TV screen – Big Bird groupies.
Fastforward to adulthood – export materials.
A stock market ice cream cart.
Give me a tree to trust. A forest.
Who knows who’s on top of the food chain.
Words are taxed with blood. Or enjambment.
Our silence is their weapon, anyway.
Or maybe just encode another poem.
On bed bugs.
Armineonila M. 2015