I. There’s little pleasure
in a decade thrice lived.
I’ve been waiting here
for my estranged brother
named ‘dance’,
who ran out on me
despite his free diary entries.
Even though I’m desperate
for reunion, I’m also bitter
for the jives lost.
II. People only buy into words
if they think they have worth.
I’m in yesterday’s underwear,
flagging down ships
while a teenage busker
sits between hip-hop royalty.
I’ve been begging to set sail
long before this premature birthday.
But I never wanted it enough.
III. No one walks away unscathed
from the stalking grey wolves.
I’ve stepped further than I ever pictured.
Fawns arriving in ascending numbers
are warned routinely
but continue to ignore all advice,
as those who scrap with the pack
tell me to just enjoy the woods.
IV. You must burn this poem
right in your future’s face.
