Let me start out with something crystalline clear
And this poem which is not about picket signs

Or fences

Justice or assimilation

This poem
Is not
Dying
To be read

This is a fresh brew
In a cup hand crafted
Honeyed by the wild

Dripping off this crisp fresh clove

of cinnamon stirringstick

Clouded by you’re favored cream

steamed

And frothy
With a generous side
Serving of chocolate dipped wake the fuck up

Dip into me

Steaming

Empathetic vision

This cup I place upon you

table

And ask pretty please stand

Under me

This poem is asking you for one thing
Accountability

to that face in the mirror first.

.әɯ

Overdrawn