I see an old woman with a crooked nose walk across the room that I write in.
to a friend about Tammy
and I think
what else is new.
I go back to my page
an army of cottonwood flows past my face
like legions of killers, they harass my mind
dulling my senses.
My cup of water is half full
or perhaps half empty
but it is water just the same.
Crystal clear bravado is embarrassing in this quiet room like this.
The door opens and shuts
like lungs inhaling and exhaling some kind of foreign air.
I take my gaze back to the lovers.
The white boy still clinging to his Arabic sweetheart.
but I am interrupted by the mad man
who calls this young girl a killer
seeing only her country behind her violet eyes
and not the fact that she's crazy in love.