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they stand on the corner
waiting for the bus
junior high, probably
they stand in groups, chatting
or in pairs
or alone
with long, sullen faces
they wear the yoke of routine
like an ill-fitted mask
frost damaged flowers
drooping under its heavy weight
most will grow into it
their spines will stiffen
as they pretend to smile
but not all
some will go crazy
trying to peel it off
like dogs clawing
at those lampshades
we make them wear
so they can’t tear out
their stitches
and lick their own
still bleeding wounds
copyright 2019
Brian
Rihlmann |
