Chronically late, angry and dying

You’re not going to make it. The train picks up speed, enters traffic. Cars beat like notes on bars. This is our music: feet drumming pavement; babies chime; lights turning green release the strings. If you’d only stop rushing, you’d harmonize. You’re not going to make it. With every mistake humans make, you boil your newborn in anger. We’re not pedophiles for wanting that open seat or fucktards for brushing the stroller. He cries in his carriage. Father, you rock him with the same hands that would hit. You’re not going to make it. Suck the blue straw for the final drop. Groom the last hairs from your scalp. Pluck like dandelion heads. Life has blown you bare, scattering time on everyone else. Watch the world grow, the cancer. You’re not going to make it.

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