Sarah Awad    2016 All Rights Reserved


Pale-scented trees
and sharp spiked walls

rifled, the only angst mine.
I am eighteen and dull

cloistered in false decadence,
Honduran in name only.

We are behind green soldiers
always, empty faces defending

tea, noble sentries protecting
one lump or two, just so.

A tempest, girdled, shrouded
in bright showers on masses

collecting in broken churches,
in every kitchen, the plantains ripen

by translucent cockroaches
watchful at night, daytime is silence

is disfrute Coca Cola
is shoeshined Airwalks
is Hollywood billboards
is silence.

I am eighteen and dull
cloaked in ugly avidity

broken pasts simply broken,
split away.


Nicolas Bock
Copyright 2016  

Nicolas Bock is a writer and architect from Kansas City, Missouri. His recent work has been published in Main Street Rag.

Table of Contents            Next Poem            Guidelines