Eager to dismiss
The journey of paper journals
Written in dry sand towels
With the gratitude of sold-out entry(ways)
And telegraphed byways
For the fruit of yesterday’s orchards
Whether they bleed, or peel, and lay languished in wet sand
They are lost journals, telling lies your mother holds
Those which are not sound
Do not break apart for license plates on tattered vehicles
In the driveways of lost youth and apples and kiwi
Whether I know you are here is not the problem
It is that I know you are solemn in your delivery
Of acceptance, you quietly tolerate the advantages of aged fruit
You quietly condone the sacrificed loneliness of bats in cages
Clinging to the side, like a rib to the breast
Hiding inside the fountains of disposal,
In preference to younger models, younger vehicles of oppression
To spite the dealing obsequious children of mild, and shortsighted, appraisals