Can I find the strength in politics?
Can I cull the good from hands that shake?
The latest trills are done in cities wide
With strength to underhand the folded sky.
My bedroom is three floors above the street.
Some days, I fold my sheets and clothes
And drink a glass of water from the sink
And bake three trays of cookies for the ones
Who live in all the other floors
That I can never reach.
Friends are here.
Friends.
These are all.
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