by Diana Cosma
Mrs. Gravity with a severe look on her face
taps her fingertip on the blackboard of life
and announces in a thick accent
that I am next
to be judged, to have my wings cut off,
to have the light of my eyes made into shooting stars
which the sky throws in the trash.
Mrs. Gravity knows I like my grapes sour.
Mrs. Gravity has overheard when I thought to myself
I’d just never make it past the electric fence of my flaws -
but I am no moron
and it doesn’t take Einstein
to figure out that
I always fall on my feet.
Last updated August 14, 2011