IT’S OBLIGATORY #poetry by jay

Your metallic space-green Mustang
white faux leather
convertible 70’s model 
of something or other
pulled in the spot, out in the street. 
You again, on weekends, kicking the curb— 

doorbell rang, knock-knocked up.

Surprised you didn’t just walk-in
our salt-box hut.
You so gallant
You so cocky
You so pretend to want to. 
Momma doesn’t want to play no more, she is fed-up
and lost. Kids, money, depression—all too much.

 You, lit-up and fired-up and freed-up!
 Her, imprisoned.

The street seems so mean, so,
gray-black-macadam-green.
It’s not warm and comforting, it’s
castless, cold and melting.

No path forward—nor backward. 
Not sure where these mean streets lead 
but we go anyway,

it's obligatory.

© Jay Mora-Shihadeh

Photo by Meritt Thomas on Unsplash

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