Concrete

Endless hours on the floor looking up, 

my own sunscreen for facial congestion 

and a healthier existence. 

Obsessiveness in the form of sloppy applications of 

a rhinestone 

or half a dozen, onto department store laminate. 

The blue blur conceals my face as faded gray scan for 

a disturbance during her travels abroad. 

Couldn’t even recycle styrofoam 

for you to get a free concert.

Never needed to tease hair or 

smear purples and reds all over 

to hide discoloration then. 

Think I want those parts of me taken away 

forever, please.  

Distractions of a mini accessory sound 

worthwhile and liberating. 

Until it’s not anymore 

and I’m lying down in some strangers driveway, 

a faded gray stare,

a radical claim of knowing who lives there. 

The mini accessory trying to lift any and all

adult size limbs, so they can faithfully 

get back to homework and a phone call to a friend. 

Too immature to let the clock run out, 

luckily personal physiology takes the lead 

and spares the future successor the heartache 

of peeling mentallyill roadkill off all varying concrete.