Not My Parents
Anonymous
And now, I want to know: who should I call?
On Friday night, the car too cramped, I chased
green lights ahead of me and blissfully dissolved
the week just past from memory’s loose hold.
I want to know: who should I call?
Those girls who sipped on acetone now walk
like fawns, with feeble legs; some boys
with tearless reddened eyes,
inside their heads they’re treading water.
I want to know: who should I call?
The songs the radio played lied to me.
And now that I have no trust left
To crumple up and throw away,
I’ll put the phone back in my pocket.