Outlier
I’ll bawl again tomorrow, or maybe on Saturday.
Perhaps I’ll wait until next month when the rain arrives;
I’ve always wanted to cry within the tears of angels.
Angels. My angels.
Gifts never delivered.
Gifts I assumed had been ordered.
Rather, I was gifted freedom;
a freedom that comes with assumptions and questions
after reaching a certain age. It’s a freedom that isn’t better
or worse, just different. It provides me with
time. I use it to write poems.
Poems that will be found in literature books
which your children will read
and only then understand
a freedom that lies outside of tradition.
Nick Gaffney