I wondered where home was for them.
Did the tattoos come off when the sun came up?
Did they draw them on with body markers,
and wash them off with soap?
Did they live at home with mother,
or under the bridges like trolls?
Like the rest of us
they slipped and fell on their words,
and picked themselves back up again.
I could see the quaking in their eyes
that shone through
the fishnets,
the torn clothes,
the tattoos,
and the piercings.
I recognized the cry
in their voices as my own.
No comments:
Post a Comment