It's a nice day, but I can't afford it
To see the world through different eyes
Not burdened by worry
Free to see colours in all their glory
*
Along this path on my way to work
A guiding constraint for what awaits
Trapped free in this prison
Slave to a paycheck, subservient to rent
*
A brief moment of freedom as I walk
I see the greens of the world
Luscious and lapping the streets
I see blues tuning into the morning late
Stretching out for the long day ahead
I see earthy browns rooted in the ground
Reaching up to grasp green friends
*
My eyes lie to me
This is someone else's world I am seeing
Someone with time and money to enjoy it
I just suffer a ticking clock and push hopes uphill
Only to see them slip beyond my grasp and roll away.
About the Creator
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
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