we’re all on the brink of crazy. we pick
our scabs in the street, ride
caffeine like horses, take
the hand squeeze.
we wet our faces
when nothing can be done, forget
our words, whisper
when the pain hurts our ears. we eat
what little we can – our guts
crammed with pleas
we wish our mothers would rise. we wish
our mothers would rise. we lose
breathe other families heading home.
Pleasures grow small,
In the morning, rosella petals,
tissue-thin but, nonetheless, pink.