170

Chaos is life, and crisis is like death

in a single instant — cradle to grave,
wax to wane, as the most jovial breath
crashes off the see-saw just to behave:
The plank wavers until it finds balance,
but the air is less humid than before;
to re-mount is to take a frigid stance,
not to mention that the body is sore:
The historical push and pull plays out
in the air, land, and sea, and will do so
until the Greyhound hunts down its gray snout
and drools its blue blood, and that's dry long so:
And I had never balked at the free food,
till I tasted bile in the hands we chewed.
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One Response to 170

  1. quyen says:

    The first line resonates. Okay, the entire poem resonates. And the last line is not cynical, just real. It makes me sad. Brings to mind the egregious socioeconomic disparities in the context of American education.

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