Civil Unrest
Rude Minerva finds life difficult to swallow.
“We aren’t the same age, so we couldn’t possibly be friends,” she says.
Unwashed for days, uneasiness rests between her cold breasts,
Distracted thoughts worry her haggard face, beneath lank and greasy hair.
Eating inflammatory foods and lifting a coffee pot,
Minerva says,
“I found my arm weaker and unable to pour for you.”
She’s eaten so much swollen rice without much range of motion,
She says, “I wanted something warm that would later turn in my insides.”
She scoffed at those stiff leathery souls, her once friends, who wanted to help her,
“Because," she says, "What on earth would I do with unlimited funds?”
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