I tell my cousin brother profaning,

"Defile anything; not a gentleman,

I am a poet. I can call my mother a whore

and still give her respect.

This spring morning sky bursts into crows.

Their flight pattern looks like spokes

from a shouting mouth. 

I shake my head and head out for

the downstairs where I live.

He has the upstairs. It is landing of the stairs

where a big window makes us silhouette. 

Published on April 17th, 2023