A twenty-something sits
on an exam table in Midtown. Her blood pressure is
perfect, as it should be; youth
is wasted on the young
who pay rent for foxholes,
lose their virginity to the bomb,
and go on blind dates with doctors. In disputed dirt,
children grow without pesticides,
hurting for hydration, always
at the mercy of falling rocks. Here,
they are sticker-ridden, climate-controlled, choking
under changes in pressure, the fruits
of two time zones that never touch; one man
turns off the evening news; another
closes the curtains. One boy
shaves his face for his school picture; another,
for his general. One woman
plans her wedding; another
cancels hers. In the fresh ruins
of ancient conflict, two little girls
play “restaurant”. One girl
makes a chocolate milkshake – something she’s seen
on dubbed television shows set in cities
where the sky drops choices
instead of final decisions. “You can’t
drink that for breakfast,” her friend scoffs. “You can
in New York.” The girl asserts, mixing mud
and asbestos with her fingers. She hums
a theme song; the bass notes ring
like aftershocks.
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