Poor C.C.
by CC Webb
1
I am from somewhere nice talking.
Heart’s blessed so
many times the soul might
even be saved.
2
In imitation I am at home. Skinless
borrowing other molting
phrases maybe get
some meaning.
3
Other people speak their backs
to me—or might as well be &
can’t understand but I do see
the soft unprotected smalls.
4
Now and then a person
in daytime go out I am
contemplated as a woman,
I can count on everyone for that.
5
Towards the evening let’s
suffer a hypocritical political stance
on the personal death: scared
mid-prioritized.
6
Towards the morning mourning
doves cooing & I soundproof. Not
thinking if possible if smoggy it’s
that usual stink cling & comforts coyly.
7
Houses are former & mortal. White
hand-out homes financially proofed
from Commie incursion grand
daddy proud of that Gov-given farm house.
8
Owned owner works
working trickle but lightly
owing heavy works remain few
hands on the spigot
9
I don’t say my name. Nothing
saved nothing housed
inside heart blessed beyond belief & if
nothing else there’s
nice talking