...I start this poem with a drawl
As if I were already speaking,
Because quite honestly, it feels less awkward that way.
When you run from abode to abode,
Each new face and door seems to shock you:
New paint. New smells. New furniture, new people,
New thoughts new loves new lives new fears.
And although running is akin to a flowing and connected stream,
Bursting through each novel hallway is always a disconnected and jarring experience.


...thus, I start most of my recent poems in a drawl,
So it feels like it flows more
And so it feels like I'm not running
Or panting for breath.
So that when I sit down at the kitchen island
That is either marble or wood or occasionally stone,
I can settle my weariness in my knees and pour my feelings in an iced glass,
Which the landowner will serve to me like I need it back.

The landowner will interrogate me like a robber.
(What do they think I'm stealing?
I'll really never know.
I'm not here for money
Or for paintings or for love,
Rather I am here for things
That simply cannot be stolen.
Like belonging.
Which is completely, and utterly conditional.)

The landowner will always be unsatisfied.
They will lift each strand of my hair
And criticize my shampoo choice,
Or pull at my crow's feet that are soft with disuse,
And they will also nitpick my skin
Tug at baby fuzz
Put me under a light and tell me to spin.
The landowner will frown.

Then they will shove at me
And point at my flaws,
Shove ragged shoes on my worn feet
And tell me to start sprinting again.

...And obediently,
I will run.