Day 68 of 100 Poems/100 Days

Out in the Open

In a small room with a high ceiling,
I pace left to right.

I think about the children,
going down the path, teasing,
playing ‘kiss and run’.

Counting trees,
as if they were counting years,
and how old they’d become.

I remember
the girls,
and how they’d put things
inside their belly buttons,
like pockets,
like small secrets.

I felt short-changed,
as if counterfeit,
dragging behind,
like a paperweight.

And then ‘click’,
release embrace,
let go of hands.

The gunfire broke my eardrums,
but I saw how the trees touched from underneath,
and now how they start to touch from above.


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