All Grown Up

Standard

Once the ghost is given up,
cup drained save the dregs,
legs stuttering, puttering
to a full stop, the sky
will pop ya in the face
with its blanched fist.
It reminds me of the lists
we used to compose,
back when our minds’ repose
was the body’s delight,
despite its shoddy execution.
They said we had a fighting chance,
that we were a solution
to an ages old equation
which confounded every
previous generation.
Amazing how differently
things have played out,
however marginal.
The bus terminal of my genius
has fallen into disuse, fat
with refuse and sleeping bums.
We go where the spirit moves us
to prove our worth,
to say we could and did.
A virtue hidden in a hurricane.
Fingering the pulse of my pride,
you offer snide remarks
and herbal teas of many colors.
It’s a lovers dance,
this dance we do
or sometimes don’t.

-r. miller

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