These Innoccent

I’m a glass, half full, placed and forgotten on the windowsill
I like to watch the boys ride by on their bikes
And feel the sun cook my yoke.

The elements and condensation drains
the prolonged winter freezes me in place
stagnant, stationary
inhibiting dispersion
like dandelion seeds of pomposity
across the Western frontier

I can’t fill myself with the love of the world
But the woman with the pitcher
She has more to get out of life
Than to be the housewife in the apron
Tending to my needs.

I do my best
But sometimes the water drips dry
And all is lost

An old man in his death bed
Dependency and bigotry
has made us fat , worthless, lazy

“Nurse, please”
Until eventually
All water dries out.

But I was aware from the beginning
All water dries out.
And it isn’t their job
To pave the way to my future

In masculine terms
With their fallen sisters, daughters.
I’d rather falter
Than require
The stepping stones
Made from the cadavers
of these innocent women.

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