Slinking through tonight’s news
in some sleeveless silk I can’t
afford, practicing my walk
in front of the tv like none of this
same old shit hurts worse when
talking heads act so surprised.
Prettied up like I get when I try.
Hand on my hip. Real world smile.
Not the duck lip kind. I know I’m fine.
Chris would have to agree.
If tv worked both ways.
Chris Hayes is married,
but I don’t care.
It’s not like I’m going to his house.
Just gonna watch him break
that news. Let my strap slip down.
Show my teeth, and hope
it looks as sweet as I mean it.
Because I’m gonna use it sometime
as if fine means I have a chance in hell.
As if anyone I know has much of a
chance at unfettered hope
while a bumbling crime boss
runs us down, running his game
out of the White House.
Bumbling fool trying so hard,
but he hasn’t smashed all my dreams.
Copyright 2019 Ré Harris. All rights reserved.