One day you will run out of sidewalk And you don’t be able to run away from yourself anymore. You’ll sit on the pavement, Burning a hole through your paint splattered jeans Just you and the weeds, looking at one another in silence Both of you wondering, “How did I get here?”
“How do I live a different life?” You will ask the weed and it will not answer (it is a weed). So you will make your way and be off, Holey pants and all, Too, so, damned tired to care anymore Spent from trying to figure out the unfigureoutable tangle that is your life (However did you get that thought planted in your mind that there are answers anyways?) and you will find that thing, that doohickey whatchamacalit that makes the whizzy thing work and then you can lay down and die in peace finally, But not til then, Not til then.
-Jan Avellana Hongo, 2023