Ficly

Suburban Blues

Slumped, cymbals break the invisible waves.
In the world, in a continent, in a division of state,
in a city, in a county, in a suburb, in a house,
her head steers
away from
backlit words and moving pictures,
from
nurtured “plants” and the limey green of the grass,
from keggers in the night
and from that happy light breeze.

Privilege felt heavy in her open heart,
weighing like something she should be able to take off,
like an instrument she played in marching band in high school.
Weighing like the weights her mother keep in the basements along with all of her other
equipment.

Circumstance is just that,
something we can’t control.
And oh! We still feel trouble and heat
and hurt.

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