Song of drifters
sandwiched between laughter and solitude,
the insouciant follower of gregariousness,
slowly, slowly, slowly breaks open
lockjaw to speak like jettisoned debris from an agatha
christie runaway train...
quietly, we become the people we pretend to be,
pretending like it was some sort of fantasy game
and wielding delightful faucet-shaped smiles
we dance the dance of the sunset
the fusillade of our tears silenced by the deafness
of our hearts beating in syncopation
we promise no longer to be monochromatic, to be
clowns of one color because they, the institution,
placate adroitly the strenuousness of our dreams
flattening our tiny worlds we kept so secret
from our parents, and their parents,
to ancestors who no longer spell
their surname the same way we do
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