Slow, Children At Play
Posted by Marion Smallwood | Filed under Poetry, Print
i know that my mind
is like reason’s very first
out of body experience
that my luck
is a cross-country road trip
with a brand-new hole in the gas tank
that my scars are ugly
and my voice is fast
and annoying
and dangerous
and that my sanity
is like an entire refrigerator
of rotting food.
i also know that my heart
is like the questionable stickiness
of a five-year-olds palms:
no one actually knows
what its made of
or why its there
but i don’t know how
to cross the street alone yet
so just hold on to it, would you?
i must say
i’m not in love with the idea
of pumping car accidents and
burning velcro shoes.
