The Plan Poem by Romella Kitchens

When we drink our own morning light, the car pulls along forgetting a still sleepy forgetfulness into the suburbs where even the darkness reflects what is codified, regulated and deemed acceptable.

People walk at the sides of the road and at the sides of life here.
Seeming beauty so threatening and it's need to be the same here as are they.

We are that Greek in the time of Romans, the Etruscan run through with a sword for straying too far from the appointed segment of his existence.
We are the broken vine in between countries, territories, artificiality, lost prefabricated roofs and ledges.
Even Daffodils never less than white or yellow here.
Daffodils all proposed one and the same.
We are those things which even the owl's head shifts towards, his luminous, anger-moist
yellow eyes track and cannot ignore.