Never, until too
late, do
we learn enough to
be
appropriate creatures welded
together
Was there a
class-
room with desks
we were told would save our plastic
grey
matter from
explosions, or
was I absent, feverish,
horizontal in a warm bath of chicken
noodle cough suppressant? Are your
caresses and highly
flammable questions examined in a
Youtube series, is there a
podcast I can
ingest
(passively, on the daily commute) covering the
Latin taxonomy of your facial
contortions and
whispered
expletives? How darkly
you turn towards
amateur calculations, slow,
uncoordinated, how
impatient with motor
skill caricatures, dismissive of feeble
fingers that learned to
walk, allegedly,
on
violin strings
When, in some non-
existent hour, your brow
furrows in resignation, neurons
organizing defeated theatrics
which resurrect flickering,
abandoned Broadway
ambitions, I,
molten, greet the parody with
embraces and
apprehension, still
dwelling on the anemic
pages of the textbook
beneath
my pillow,
abridged, and riddled
with errors.
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