700c

Somewhere, child,

sunflowers are grown

not for their beauty

but their seeds.

Someone’s mom

will put them on salads at dinner

and someone’s father

will spit them under aluminum

bleachers

at little league games.

Somewhere, child,

a woman sleeps

who is not your mother

but might have been

her sheets are colors

I do not know

which makes me anxious

and comfortable.

Somewhere, child,

your great grandmother

paces nervously over

cold linoleum wondering

where her grandchildren are

and if they’re happy.

Somewhere, child,

a woman is purchasing a vacuum

in a large red box

that reads:

Never coil a cord again!

as if it were some great chore.

Somewhere, child,

a man is loading the back of his truck

with 12 packs of coors, bud light, and modelo,

It’s ok to be indecisive.

Somewhere, child,

a wall is filled with empty spaces

that used to harbor art and photos

of someone near to you

who is no longer physically

geographically

near to you.

Somewhere there is a hole

punctured by safety glass

slowly leaking air

from your lungs

and blood from your

heart

until there is nothing but

negative pressure

and emptiness

and that’s all it is

all it ever is.

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