small sad

windows crying

bad skies make them

i sit in the back of the car

i don’t fight why must we fight

they tell me that it is grown up talk

but i hear the words at school they use

when people fight i like to imagine a piano

or maybe a big drummer playing the drums

they gave me a walkman to listen to

i turn it up loud when they fight

i sit in the back of the car

my hand out the window

my fingers cutting

the buildings

in half