make up my mind
my arms will strike naturally
as your hands hover closer clutching
glasses argued half-full but
honestly,
what is ever empty?
the capacity for thought, sometimes?
or better yet for bitterness
the spite shouting you down like a mother who
seems to care, seems to know
from the balcony
wool sweater
slow smile
but who still leaves
her children
to bounce and run
like fat dirty little
rain down paths
of shingle patterns unassisted
I can make a mother some day,
maybe one who knows not to confuse
directionlessness from recklessness
but for the mother to be built
so must I be built
you would make a navigator
and prison architect,
not I
so horde
and hide
my treasures
and remedies until
I beg,
it won't be
too much longer now, I
didn't exactly come with a guidebook
I could always make one, but
then again, so could you