found poem, I
by Ana Padilla Fornieles
trust me,
you do not want to see the
blockbuster visions of a nation of dreamers
marching on,
playing with fire,
rejoining the battle,
obsessed with
bread lines, a domestic bonanza,
bringing relief to
a resurgence of
troubled waters
deflated by the weight of responsibility,
the grim picture of a blue-collar necessity.
urged to share a hero’s welcome.
hyping child stars.
warning signals flash for
something ventured. in a golden age of
old tales, a struggling couple
fears a sobering mindfulness.
tomorrow a blistering summer
will heat up an empty nest.
how long can it last?
how low will it go?
middle-class urbanites
clothe me with famine and political turmoil.
my hands itch in public bathhouses.
broken in the chaos,
these men still spend all day
draped in varying states of torpor.
they like to stave off loneliness and old age,
and named me after a flower.
I assume it’s because they love me unconditionally.