uutpoetry:

Zulu Lunch Break Poem

No one wants to see a miserable old couple
           shoveling buffet
into jowls so wrinkled the lower lip droops, drops
           dejected kernals of corn
and black beans; whatever they are silent about
           lacks the vibrations
of a twenty-something eating an apple on a bench
50 yards away, and the Zulu master with jagged staff
crossing the street in his bare iron feet of war
and jeans shorts slit down the side right to his hip
and the powerful thighs more threatening
than the over-ripened sun/fire/hair ascending
           from his head.

I have nothing to consolidate this life
           of answering calls, emails,
call and answer, and dark nebulae over the
majestic corners of mini-scrapers creeping.
8 birds, 150 poppies.
We have grown together, let us shrink together now,
trying to understand the cloud-shade
when the burning sun would have seemed
so right.