We are a kind of people
who smooth songs over
pickle and peanutbutter on rye.
Who's lips are stretched, laughing,
tongues are snakes, curled up in throats
striking teeth, words,
long winded mouth-slip sermons,
over pop-corn and candy corn,
making no assumptions on
who is,
what is,
only why.
A kind of people who skip in gutters,
hurdle rolling hills
with weeds clinging to
our only pair of blue-dreams.
We cling to our beliefs
and the arms of our sisters.
We leap into ourselves,
into strengths
into weakness,
into each other.
A kind of people who lie beneath pianos,
stretch up arms to feel sonatas
vibrate through fingertips.
Who cling to the black beams
of the underbelly of a baby grand
to feel alive.
A kind of people who
howl our Broadway songs
from street corners in empty towns.
Who let their eyes drink starlight
as medicine to soothe the day.
A kind of people who strain bloodshot eyes
to see what forever looks like.
Who grip hands, and link elbows,
to cling to our freedoms.
We are a kind of people.