she used to kiss me at red lights.
I would make her coffee in the mornings,
and maybe leave a note under the mug
for her to wake up to.
some mornings, I wouldn't even have time 
to make myself a coffee 
because I was running late to class.
we would sleep in too often.
she would crawl out of bed,
with her blonde hair shining by the light
from my window, her soft smile poking through
the top of her shirt as she hastily threw it on,
and would run with me out the door to her car
to make sure I got to class on time.
now, I get to class early,
I have a coffee every morning,
and red lights last
twice as long.

there’s nothing good that’s come
from these past few years.
no political changes for the poor.
no more role models.
no more poetry.
I wonder what historians
will think of us.
will they lump us together
in groups of ten,
like the ’80s and ’90s?
or will they get lazy retelling us?
will they place us together
in hundreds, or thousands,
picking out only the salvageable
from this worthless era?
I won’t be included in these stories.
neither will you.

and they still won’t have poetry.