i have the prettiest handwriting
but my mother hates it
as a professor, she says,
it is important for me to be able to read it
when she says that were both quietly seated
i object, a thing that i chose to do best
i almost went to law school, but failed the entry test
at the time my grandma was sad
that's what she chose to do best
she'd sigh and put her hand on her heavy chest
but i say mom
mommmmm
listen
it's not about reading
it's more about feeling
feeling the shape of the word
it's neurolinguistics, she smears a bread full of curd
why are you surprised that i know this term
it's like all i do is try and to learn
my page is like the sea and the words are like boats with the sails
it's about the swirls and the whirls of the meandering tails
of the g's and the y's
and all the letters have bonds to each other, unbreakable ties
my greek looking e's
and fictional t's
my a is a bow
my b has a toe
even the capitals sometimes appear to be low
like my head on the way to the train that likely takes me home
right after rush hour
when the overtime workers are hungry and dead
longing all day for their ikea bed
listening to educational talk
i never liked people who enjoy it, to mock
and me, i listen to indie with deep breaths in the mic
and finally learn to sing how i like
cause apparently my notes are too long
my voice is too loud
and the melody’s lost in the scattered train sound
i don't like it
but its there
like a dog to be walked
we sat at the table at 8 and we talked
the wiener dog with coffee like fur
the thing it did best is listen to her
i can change anything but i won’t change my Rs
i hear them approaching, the lit subway cars