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Foals in winter coats,
White girls of the North,
File past on, five and one,
The are the fabled lambs,
A Sunday ham,
The EHS norm.
And they can float above the grass,
In circles if they tried,
A latent power I know they hide,
To keep some hope alive,
That a girl like I could ever try,
Could ever try.
So we just skirt the hallway signs,
A phantom and a fly,
Follow the lines and wonder why
There's no connection.
A week of rolling eyes,
And cheap shots from the tribe,
And we're often in Marcus' porch again,
Another afternoon with the gold head tunes,
And pilfered booze.
We wandered through your mama's house,
And the milk from the window lights,
Family portrait circa ninety-five,
This is that foreign land,
With the sprayed on tans,
And it all feels fine,
be it silk or slime,
So, when they tap out Monday heads,
To zombie-walk in our stead,
This town seems hardly worth our time,
And we'll no longer memorize or rhyme,
Too far along in our climb,
Stepping over what now towers to the sky,
With no connection.
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