Blue Call Her Worker

She eyed my
fingernails, every one either
broken or frail, clasped
together in a plea.

The air in
the room was stuffy but the
breeze in my prayers
spared me its halitosis,
syllables focused on the
faithfully forged
belief

I’ll not
always be here, I’ll not
always be third-tier;

my hands
will construct something
worth keeping on
a bicentennial basis or
longer.

But I return to
my chassis,
soundtracks of
traffic adjacent to
a door I spend hours
and days imagining

won’t be there
tomorrow,

thinking no one will want this plastic
accomplishment ten months out,

and I will never
get out, and
I will always

be yours.

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3 thoughts on “Blue Call Her Worker

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