How come summer falters
and frees me from weighed hands,
weathered so seasick in reveries?
They won’t board the ferry.
A child does not actually care,
about the gifts it earns on some day in March.
Would I March for them?
Or turn red, red-y to pounce and fling flowers
at someone’s feet.
Today you are full,
tomorrow emptied as barrels underground,
where the barkeep turns dials
and wipes her brow.
You, proliferated, distract me, full.
A cup to the brim,
grins,
wide as a belly, late afternoon.
Come pang on,
notes ice,
you’re on your own,
stories ivoried,
far to go home.
I paint myself loud,
I will raise a flock.
Come nighttime.
I sit in stranger company, unalone,
along the left side of the tube,
arm wrests already claimed,
obtuse but so very there.
I, nauseous, board,
and hold hands with the banister,
on my way home.
A poem from a while ago! Remembered and shared.
Jennifer Funnell 
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