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