Friday calls for a poem!
By my son Shane.
It’s a burnt orange sky– like,
signaling-hell-orange with a purple threat.
My windows are tinted with sleet.
Those lit portals from the projects
seem like watch-posts,
or something. A hard thing is,
wondering whether or not to
still be sad.
The music sounds tinny and bleak,
but it is maybe one of your favorite groups.
If you do not eye-roll at the occasional bad
accent I don’t want to hear about it. This will
depress me. There should always be someone
coaxing from you a happy reaction; your true
laugh makes friends and family brighter. Test it.