Crows on Concrete

She lies a sidewalk
burning souls, dying
on a summer night
morosely ascetic
hair curling, curled earlier
a precarious charm
meant as curative
for another weekend
entombed, concrete feet.
Crows, satin cackles, claw
obsolete across her lips
unaware of the introverted
oddity, feeling
tonight, distinctly, alone.

SS

May

Self-prescribed expectations 

of a birthday, almost

20 is an adult already. 

Needs a license

a car

a boyfriend, significant 

other, lover

work, work, work

on digging in the dirt. 

You need a vacation

sunset destination. 

Always buried under

something, unfortunately

not a man, they scoff

she must be empty 

hearted, full minded. 

A social experiment

in anxiety.  

SS 

(Good) Morning 

She woke up, unfortunate

fortunately warm

and safe

and breathing

herself

in a gentle metronome

before consciousness, still

a faded figment of a sketched girl. 

Then the pen slips, 

buckets slosh,

cold, icy ink condensates

along her brow;

the queen adorned, woven

in a tiara of anxiety,

awakes.  

SS