do you remember in fifth grade …
Darius Simpson
but i know better. i know poets like you don’t do no half-steppin. especially not on your way out. especially not the departure you don’t come back from. i’m sure it was somethin theatric. like death stumbled past your window earlier that evening. makin his regular rounds with clipboard gripped in bone hand. didn’t realize it was your window at first. went to check another name off the list. i bet it was your laugh that broke his monotonous drift. or the glint of your grin glistening off a glare in the glass. bet he leaned in closer to get a good look. saw you see him. winked. i bet you didn’t say a word all day though you knew why he came. just kept on with your routine like normal. i bet you winked back. bet he was so glad your time came he smiled the whole way up. took the scenic route to the gate so he could pick your spirit brain. bet he circled the sky twice to keep you talkin. my only book of yours on the shelf is borrowed forever. from a friend that wasn’t reading. i bet you’d call this liberation instead of theft. a gift. not a loss. …
Or liberation was bludgeoned by so many reforms it stopped …