Learning To Read

Learning To Read

Selling my soul for stardust;

one walks in

as another walks out,

and I am washed in rage

and empathy.

Spoon-fed Americana 

not really my bag,

I like the girls

with rough edges.

And I’m stranded

inside myself,

looking at pretty pictures

in broken frames,

seeing past subtle imperfections,

not wiling to settle 

for clean paper

or fresh ink.

I like the smudges.

And she sits next to me,

she always does.

I’ll put her in italics,

write her name

in bold print.

Hide my eraser,

and try to turn the page.