I would like to write a poem
But can only think
Of traffic, middle fingers, and the heat.
The train and the fields are inspiring.
The mountains too.
But there’s a lot of construction right now on 17 —
and mosquitoes.
My friends get invited to martini nights in the city
To share beautiful poems about their ancestors
and injustice
and my eyes go red when I try to review other people’s work
Jealous.
