By: Elizabeth Baseley

 

Her hair is tan

Almost sandy as she

Waits at night,

For the

Tired party she always attends,

Even when she doesn’t want to.

 

She puts up with the

Racist comments,

The cowboy boots she hates,

She is German and Mexican,

Making her not able to fit in anywhere,

 

Not in the south with their

Strange accents and iced tea

But she doesn’t fit up north,

She’s too hot-headed for that,

So instead she waits.

 

She waits and hides her

Abundance of feelings,

Bottles them up

Ships them off like the

Military boys she courts.

 

Her hair sprawls when she lays,

Long interstates winding,

Turning.

Freckles dot her face 

Like the windows on buildings 

Her eyes are only seen at night

In the lights reflecting off of the dirty river she loves.

 

She is young, but worn,

She is the city that I love

She is my home

 

 

 

 

 

World Trade Center by Leah Mayes