We live our inner lives, our words quietly dropping,
Like the faucet dripping on a midnight bathroom.
Our thinking comes to a head, in our young bodies.
Our wise hair had gone in a ring through a window
On to the side-walk, in company with a plastic bag.
We are a cockroach that is lying curled up on the sill
Waiting for a window of sun to quicken its wings.
We are the 99 %, our wings being with them of 1% still
We like to get our wings back, please, on the window- sill.