Have you slept my dear?
Have you runned yourself down again?
Have you been sleeping in the alley next to the ice cream store again?
Are your limbs painted with cheap ink yet?
Mirroring the hyenas with blood on their mouths?
Are you the scavenger you say you are?
Or are you the atomic destiny I beckoned for?
The family I’ve forgotten.
The fast life I swore to leave behind?
As you see child, we are culture of war.
Contorting ourselves to a Samba of nuclear prolificity.
And yet, there you are, plain as day.
In love with the air you breathe and the nuances of the leaves.