They’ve done everything
right, and yet somehow
they are hiding below
a toadstool; they
are standing in dark
corners looking
for spare change;
they are drowning
in the fiction they’ve
created with hopeful
dreamy eyes.
There are two patriarchs
looming over them
waiting for them
to breath, to move,
to step off narrow,
lemon-scented line,
and they, motionlessly,
are afraid to love.

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