My required words were: tenant, tomb, menial, and enshroud.
At the end of the day,
when the sun is bleeding out on
the knifepoints of skyscrapers,
you can see that we are all no more
than insects, foraging through the day
to feed ourselves and our larvae.
Cashiers rest their mandibles,
waitresses neatly fold their wings,
and doctors and lawyers return
to their hexagonal wax houses.
A line of ants stretches down the freeway.
And I can only wonder how long before a
malicious child wanders past,
magnifying glass in hand.
I can’t afford a house in
the prime real estate of your heart,
so instead I settle for an apartment.
It’s a modest affair,
one room with one window
where the red wine of sunlight can flow freely in,
and at night the sounds of the city
can enter and fill my dreams.
I am only one of hundreds in the building,
but while others will leave when they find better pay,
here I will forever remain a tenant
of my prison,
She starts from the distant hills,
enshrouding their soft forms in her arms.
She then caresses each cool blade of grass,
little bridges between green life and gray concrete.
She moves to the street lights,
cupping each luminescent sphere in her hands,
keeping their light trapped in cones of warm romance.
Even the skyscrapers,
whose pointed tips puncture the sky,
fall to her satin voice.
Last of all, she visits you.
She pulls the blankets up around you,
her heavy hair blocking out the light from the window,
touches your forehead with her sleep softened hands,
and she whispers in your ear,
“Awake, my child,
awake, and dream”