The Restless Diplomat
Bethany, your nights are so long
And you cannot tell what’s wrong
Your threads touch only the ground
Dragging dirt, rain, where you wound
Puzzled, knowing there is no connection.
Everyone is clay, a smothering depression
Are you fat? Lazy? Forward? Tell me
Otherwise torture yourself—but you see
Desperation conjures mindless avoidance
And retreat to a shallow, pretentious disturbance.
“Fuck them all, good riddance anyway”
And perhaps wander like the stowaway
On the smelly bus eating a molded peach
Grasping to the sweets of confounded beseech.
Albeit other voices, gestures are sour
You have the nurturing power
To stand and outwait the arrogance
Leaving this pit to attend your patience.