To Suffer


It’s like a pot of soup

All frothy with orange

On my mother’s stove

Bipolar, Tricolor

I long to touch the ground

To the common understanding

That built my home

Brick by chilly board

Atop the rainbow sand


But instead

They’re chopping turnip

And dipping it in Draino

With a drop

Of life’s latest

Celebrity perfume

That’s full

Of fun and flowers

And that word flirty

That I’ve never understood


To kill a mockingbird

Is considered such a crime

But I’ve wondered

Why they blame the killer

And not the bird

Just because it’s small

And dainty

And capable of beauty

Some rare occasion

Sunday brunch

With my mother’s soup

All frothy and delicious



- Anonymous