Like the red pencil
That’s carried around always,
Easily erased.
Like the old pencil
That you still have in your bag
Blunt, but not broken.
Inconsiderable,
Never jeopardizing space,
Don’t dispose of me.
Mother City Haiku
Each morning, I wait
Behind the two iron gates,
Like a caged-up bird
When I step outside
The sun rays remind me that
My skin’s a template
Locking up, I think
How fences seem offensive,
Almost violent
Lovesick Tangerine
My greedy tongue discovers
Sweet and sour slices,
Juicy. Tears run down the cheeks,
Extracted liquid.
I lick off and swallow pain.
