you know it gets to you when they ask you for your number
or with shoulders heaving a suggestion,
and you walk home zipping your jacket up, smoothing down your skirt.
where do I get to breathe,
wanting to be breathing?
when do all the pretenders walk away home to leave
the real truth ones reveiled,
to honeysilk and the ones the bees have in store for me,
their radient comb queen?
I was waiting for the bus again or in the library
and the flittering flies caught me again, taunting where I was but
(flattering as it sometimes is)
I never made sense of the howdy-do’s of it,
of the where’s your sister at,
of the what’s your house smell like when it’s late at night.
I’d recoil as far as i could in my chair
but sometimes I just feel calm enough to sit and stare
sit and stare
Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry