Orphans Poem by Andrew Prout IV

Orphans



'I'm 20. That man fed me every day.
This is my daughter. She's 6 days old.
I also carry shame.'

Coulda-woulda-shoulda, sure,
But do you like baseball, Benicio?
Someone spoke the name of Trumbo
But I was as idle as something old.
After all my heavy breathing, and with my scrapes and bones,
They'll find my gun powder, my cannons,
My book on interzone.
Once a place to butcher mean,
A thing you didn't polish, an off key sound.
Puppies behind glass,
My far off sis and me in a lost and found.
Two crazies in a shoebox, Emily Dickenson and myself.
As cracked as modern conversation,
Though no longer sad or staring at the ground.
In fact if I could write the smiling
I think I probably would stop writing.
I never would have written a word.
I hope you get stepped on by an elephant then,
Wrote a little British girl.

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Andrew Prout IV

Andrew Prout IV

Columbus, Ohio, USA.
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