Concrete

I am too concrete to bend,
to twist my tongue
and make my fingers dance
in red shoes; watching
in envy from the sidelines.
while dust motes and gold light
fill up the room, they talk
about feathers and dark tunnels.
I can only see the bloom
of flowers on the windowsill, smell
their perfume, and they talk
about bricks in their bones
and trees in their hands.
I give up and breathe deep
and grip the concrete.








I admire the writers that can take something that can connect two things that seem totally irrelevant in my mind, and then make them relevant and beautiful. It's even more inspiring, because I find it so difficult to do. It's like connecting a soda machine to the ocean, or a june bug to a piggy bank. What?