I want to cook outside.
In Sierra Madre.
Catalina Island in sight.
No madre or padre.
We were the future.
Cant press rewind.
Skipped a whole generation.
Left us behind.
We are still crabs.
Left in the bucket.
You see them climbing on us.
Your like, “f it”.
As long as you made it.
You really don’t care.
Say we should not have helped them.
Been more aware.
So you sit outside the bucket.
Claiming we aren’t sober.
While not thanking the crab
that carried you over.
PATRICIA A. MANIACI/AMERICA RACINE/BLOCK
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