Wastewater

Wastewater

 

Sweetwater moments,

never shedding tears

down the drainpipe

of a rundown life.

 

Walking quietly

in 6 inch stilettos,

borrowing an idea

or a dollar bill.

 

Talking out of turn

on the carousel,

looking for the brass rings

but only finding holes.

 

It’s all understandable

or realistically shameful;

I always have

one foot on the gas.

 

And the other out the front door.

 

An idea stolen

from the torn pages

of an old coloring book.

 

And it only runs as deep

as bourbon in glass.

 

Belonging;

the shadows

of a shallow life.

Reviews

[Georgiakevin]

I found myself feeling a sadness for the subject of this poem and the feeling that she is crying out for someone to understand her. Your poetry is filled with such emotion.