Department of Romance Languages. Part I

She walked home along the same roads
every day, dragging her bag behind her in the sand
or snow.

Each time she went under the overpass,
across from the burning library,
her fingers traced out whatever word
she'd heard that day
from the teacher or a sparrow,
against the dirty concrete wall.

Cars screamed by.
Headlights just alive for seconds,
lit up the walls with all
the beautiful, terrible things she'd scrawled.

the muscle

You stare at your sad sagging arms
and wonder
where the atrophied parts have gone
and how to coax them back.

An exhale
and the gut sinks full
over your belt. This mirror
is pathetic. And warped,
probably.

After all these aching mornings,
all these unopened calendars
and notebooks dripping with regret,
after all these years of challenges
you still look like a child
flexing in the mirror.
Dukes up, chin out.

Absurd that play and hand grenades
would sleep so close.

A child isn't meant to fight,
and neither are you.