by Nikki Wallschlaeger

The mailman does not bring me what I want, but it’s not his fault. His job is being on the streets. There are folks who want someone else to be stronger because they have jobs. So they go to the cafes & wait, read books about racial inequality & imagine participation.

I will open the door to these cafes and maybe a bell will tinkle. I do love dreamers. But I sit in the corner of the streets, reading the same books because I am waiting for someone. It’s not my fault, say the dreamers. They will look at me nervously if my face is not carved.

The books do not bring me what I want & it’s not in the café’s imagination. The mailman has a job to lose, the folks who write the faults about participation. Bring them to me so I can sit in the corner and you can walk by dreaming about twinkling hells, if my waiting is stronger

Than your dream of inequality I will imagine my participation in all the books of the streets when folks are not strong & only read books about doors. I do hate dreamers. And carved bells. The mailman’s streets bring me what I do not want & this door of the café seems stronger when I walk to the corner They do not look nervous if my face is not tinkling but folks still waitin to read the same books

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