A million thoughts rush through my mind,
or maybe none.
Just as many words leave my tongue,
or maybe some.

When I wish that every corner,
filled with the dust of aging bile,
would be elated to display
all of us who have served our time.

People walk by our home and stop
and we quickly turn our heads (low).
Twist our dials to greet with a show.
I wish windows were mirrors, oh.

In stale ink, windows read “mirrors”.
The feigning I’ve tagged, considered.
Maybe then we’d see each-other and
find out which one ran for cover.

If only I knew, or better,
if only I never found out.
I only wish for the latter,
for the sadness of the first timed out.

It makes me feel blue, so to say,
but that which no longer rings true
is not this tint fit of the sky,
it’s your pale nontransparent hue.

It’s the dirt smog of window stains
of all those long-sleeved summer days
when we rolled up our sleeves and soon
were up all night for carnival games.

Those nights, I was no bearded lady,
but I strut with fully feigned might.
In spotlight, borderline shaddy.
Seals honk tricks then hide out of sight.


2 thoughts on “Bearded

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