Reid@YWP

If my life, my American life, was a table setting 

Laid out lovingly by all my ancestors. 

It would have the usual trappings: 

There is a fog that escapes from the wide mouth 

Of a creature that lurks 

Through the raw October air. 

Almost obvious is the daunting manner of its complexion, 

And then there were two, 

Sitting on a bench by the bus stop.

Waiting.

Watching.

Two kids - teenagers - then young adults.

On different sides of the same story.

One representing tails

There’s a blackbird outside my window, 

but he doesn't sing. 

His golden eyes glow like horizons,  

pupils like sinking ships. 

Hours turn into days,

days turn into weeks. 

I can't get out of my head,

I get no sleep.

Scared to look under my bed,

because that's where my demons lay their heads.