Foster Child

but are we really friends?

I’ve stood up asking the nights

but I think about you so often

God’s like a woman I stood up

at the bar.

2am, my usual drink of choice.

Asking:

where are we going

where are we going

like a newly minted

foster kid watching a parade of foreign

suburbia pass by while the government

mandated parents in the front seat repeat:

I love you, I love you

But in a mechanical religious sort of way.

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