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
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