Forties
Do you believe the inanimate
only become alive when others
Command their attention?
Or do they stay compositional,
exploring the vastness of their
plastic beaned or cotton filled
Mind. May they be comparing the difference
in dexterity in the two?
Maybe their civilizations even attain
some cheeses aged to profection
with conversations of politics & hierarchies
to drown out the harshest of whiskies
and the driest of wines. I still believe.
This poem is about:
My family
My community
My country