Real


I don't hear
a soundtrack to my life:
there are no characters with
carved jawlines,
perfect silhouettes,
faces burned bronze in the sun.
There are people who sweat into their hair
in my life,
people who break pencil lead and
blink grey under their eyes.
I have grown up with
glasses over fresh-washed faces in
the evening, naked in their freckles.
I am used to the frayed dishrag,
dirt under nails after weed-pulling Saturdays,
the smell of eggs and sausage
Sabbath day.
I don't want to live where
art has labels and
history is stowed behind glass cases:
Give me the smudged life,
the life I can hold in my hands.
Give me something
caressed and
brushed and
lived for.

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