Four Million Little Odds

And darling, I told you
this ain’t your war but you
stuck around like I was
worth fighting
four million little
odds
for,

tiny cogs in a
quaint machine malfunctioning
simultaneously,
saying fuck this
noise in
unison,

but you left pride at
the drawing
board and
drew me in
its stead.

And if you look you can
still spot
those four
million odds like stars on
our white board,

calling us
traitors,
branding us
whores and
love junkies,

but we’re the Sunday drivers
of life’s survivors,
lone geysers
disturbing miles of beauty,
chipped sapphires inside
priceless
jewelry,

so what
rocket ships
we build from Sharpies will fly
like starlings over
trailer parks,

arching sleek
designs to make it
past each nebula of
incredulous
sky.

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7 thoughts on “Four Million Little Odds

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