day day day

“They’re like… whoa!”
and so
beauty described in vulgarity
becomes a joke.

crossing without
the little green man, to hold my hand
I stand between two buses,
the choice is irrelevant anymore.
Either one gets me to school,

I’ve been late the past three days,
so regardless
of who catches them with me,
I just want to get it right,
this once.

Seated, I wonder
where all the younger grades have gone.
Only my generation remain,
and the talk today
is of printers playing up
(with which I am familiar)
and assignments,
rather than boys and clothes.

On the radio, I hear the
voice of someone I used to adore.

I was running late this morning,
or rather, pelting late,
despite having got up early.
My toast
flying out behind me in forms of crumbs.
I hurtled down the driveway

and brushed my hair at the bus stop.
I’ve gone backwards,
and am thinking too far ahead.
I’m on time for today,
it hasn’t left me behind
-like the numerous weeks and months
I lived, but didn’t notice.

November ’05


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This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x





All content on this blog © Rebecca Tilley, 2003-present

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