Mother II
It happens that I’m tired of being homeless.
It happens that I find lovers beneath green awnings of the ice cream shops
whose faces I have borrowed the night before
as yours and father’s
whose faces I gave back this morning,
gray as fog rising from the asphalt after rain.
The smell of fast food chains all linked in one strip mall
makes me want to hold a lost child’s hand, guide her home,
feed her a handful of crisp, hot fries dipped in cold ketchup.
I want nothing.
No more streets.
Nor umbrellas.
Nor benches.
It happens that I’m tired of shy shoulders,
my unfaithful feet
still circling.
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