I listen to greenhouse poems 
 grown out of season, large
 with theory, but short on
 feeling.

I am in the middle,
 somewhere between the
 admins and the freedom
 addicts.

“Why is it so quiet?”
 “Because something great is
  going to happen, or nothing
  at all.”

The poet laughs in our faces,
 but doesn’t see us. His baby
 is out in a world without
 welfare.

Children need structure to
 survive. Or at least, some
 kind of love.

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