This Morning

by krstaten


Something about these swelling,
sweltering summer mornings,
air pregnant with moisture
even as the birds start to sing–

something about these days
screams revolution, the kind
that never leaves your home town,

like smoking weed in laundromats or
getting drunk in dusty basements,
beads of sweat dancing down
our backs. we swat away the gnats

and wait beneath oppressive blue skies
for the summer storm to roll in
crying, Freedom, Freedom, Freedom,

sweet agonizing anticipation
a soundtrack to these days
that stretch lazily on,
sprawling across imagined youth.