The Downgrade

We are the sad and quiet thunderclaps,
more ash than dust but when
we stand in the crowded marketplace,
nobody can tell the difference.

We write poetry in parking lots and leave
our hearts taped to the metal posts on street corners
instead of hanging them on our sleeves like
everyone else. We wanted to staple them
to the insides of our jackets and tape our eyes
shut so no one sees
our tears, but word on the street was that
nobody tries to clean up an abandoned building.

We watch as the world gets
painted over in acryllics,
bubblegum blue and spontaneous
yellow but nothing can conceal
rotting flesh cracked smiles or eyes that scream of
hell right at home.
Every thin layer of paint eventually peels off,
and what we leave behind is something
not any hue or shade can alter or change.

Remember the sunsets we would watch
before we went home to glue our palms together
and our knees to the floorboards to try and send some hope
to the men and women oceans away,
rupturing the arteries of enemy soldiers
because it’s supposed to make things
better. Remember that sun, remember the clouds
spilling orange onto a blanket draining of color
and remember that orb,
its colors weren’t acryllic but they
were blood red, exploding before our eyes
like the lifelines exploding in our minds.

Everyone says it gets better from here but
we know we are in the downgrade,
and the acryllics can’t lie to us because
the truth is graffitied on the shrinking horizon
and on our mother’s hands, sweet and shaking
with a sorrow we can only remember as love.

We are in the downgrade so keep your heads low,
brace for impact and stay close, but remember
the rebirth after a firestorm and hold my hand
a little tighter. Remember the flowers
after a flood, budding palettes of pigment ready
to bring the landscape back to life.
We can make it through the night.