I come from a place where quarters are
tailored as lustrous silver buttons
strung together with the residue riches
of small town life.
The houses are planted like
impeccable lego ziggurats
with their roots clutching on
for generations too long;
and the children here beam with
straight white pearls
that reflect off the silver linings of
embellished rusty clouds.
Here–the crime rates are as low
as the stress is high
with the nerve picking pressure
of decisions to be made.
Gaping mouths and parched throats,
gasping for four magic words:
fame, money, success, power,
fame, money, success, power.
There is a constant velvet pretense
masking closed plastic doors
and an incessant gloom smothered
with upper class glamour.
Just last week, I saw a girl with depletion
carved on her forearms.
Her eyes
are still sketched in my mind.
And yes,
clean classrooms have taught me
exhaustion in three different languages,
but I’m still more drained than
these tongues will know.
I come from a town known for its
lustrous silver buttons,
but here,
smiles are bought with pennies.