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