Please give us back our wings

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.







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