light shines on the scars.
I’m sorry
if I (mis)treated you, like an object.
the marsh gives off a subtle stench;
it’s true.
you (mis)treated me the same way.
the winter air is cool and crisp,
everybody knows.
it’s the way we were raised.
gravel crunches beneath lone feet.
Woody knew.
America can be so toxic and fake.
a friendly passerby says hello,
always avoiding
these open wounds we carry.
I return the greeting and continue on.
love thrashes
across the slashes of God’s handiwork;
tall grasses bend gently in the breeze.
open wounds
are still bleeding for no logical reason.
Oh, Scar(borough),
I love everything about this moment.
