Baboso
Baboso
(Photo Credit: Cornell Capa)
Sometimes you look at
me
like silver is missing
from the mess hall.
Your eyes full of perspective
piercing me
to the wall
sticking
my palms
with the thumb tacks
I
wish I had.
I don’t understand.
Did someone just call
a shake down?
Cause I didn’t hear a 5-6
down the hall.
You ask me
if it was me
who took a Sharpie
to the stall.
What’s the point of it all
if you’ve questioned
my integrity?
You find me
guilty
already,
but what about my Bunkie?
He’s likes to practice
Calligraphy—
he calls it—
when he flicks around his straw
filled with baby oil and
burned cotton ball.
Sometimes you look
at me
like I’m a rabbit
waiting to run.
It’s true most days,
but I’ll stay inside where I’m free.
effete scribbler 