Workshop Poetry

Don’t forget the market on Sunday, Don’t forget your Mama.

Dotted lights spell coffee behind my eyes, 

Blonde hair is braided, cutoff, and thrown away – Drowned in an awkward soda.

Cover your mouth. Her eyes dart around the room suspicious of you, followed by a man in yellow…

“You’re writing novels over there?”

Of course only the story of the dream in front me – Reaching for money.

Reaching for candy —

Should I stay with my Uncle? 

A man stares down into his green grocery bag,                              “Where is my money?”