Working Sucks 12/14

Somewhere between service and senility
I'm supposed to stop,
gather my thoughts and step into the next moment,
but it gets corroded,
eaten away by what just happened
or what might,
and I'm left arrested,
breathlessly bustling between
benevolence and bonkers,
driving around town
drowning
in my rain painted truck
and wondering
if intersectionality
meant to cut me 40 ways fm sunday
and leave me to bleed?
Part of me is just absent,
fragmented and frazzled,
vacillating in mall protests
vicariously,
trembling,
and tired,
stayed on social media,
selectively supporting
events where safety isn't an issue,
as a woman,
a black woman,
a small woman.
 See, I don't get to choose.
I don't get to stand
between my calloused experiences
and collective nonsense,
swing like a pendulum,
and hope everybody can tell time.
Time, like racism, is a social construct,
warped manipulation
designed for us not to connect the dots,
see we are all some kinda of crazy,
and smile anyway
Poetry counts my minutes,
alliterating my way through allegories
and gauging the goodness of what I do,
not matter if I share it at all;
Poetry is my peace.