Thick empty air
gently licking her moist skin.
From the window,
she sees the hot masses swarm by.
The stale air reaches
out for her, pushes, guides her
towards the oak door,
into the red, white, and blue throng.
The amoeba engulfs her-
instant acceptance into the patriotic bliss.
Distant music drifts in her ears,
the scene's noises muffled, and far away.
She sidles up to a woman
with a scarlet mark between her brows.
The woman's brown skin a magnet
to her own milky, sour flesh.
They brush wrists:
an intimate exchange of sweat.
She slides her pinkie
down the hot brown fleshy arm.
The woman notices.
She speeds ahead without looking
at the pale, lifeless hand that violated
her exotic sweat ridden body.
And the fireworks start before
they'd made their way to the park.
I love the things you write. Maybe someday I'll write good things too and then I'll be closer to being like you.
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