She bleeds through veins that have been retrofitted for our future,

A running methamphetamine that never tires and always keeps steady pulse,

Excitedly,

Beating,

Torn blue jeans, pant legs rolled up into shorts,

Slaving,

It isn’t about me,

It isn’t about me,

Selfless smile,

It isn’t about me.

A **** hunch, quizzing over an unstained oak desk of etchings,

First place to my second centered in the middle.

A posture for quizzing- a leaning first grader.

None greater.

If she is overcast, there exists none grayer.

But I dig deep and find a kaleidoscope,

At that moment, I look at the light,

It’s true,

It isn’t about me.