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P O E T R Y
by Gianna Russo
| Senior Year
Even though I keep my window open,
when I call to your youth, it ignores me.
It dashes down the street,
reaching for luck's strong-arm pass.
It leans against your truck where the motor
warms itself with possibility.
Your youth hands back the allowance
I try to sneak into its pockets.
It mows the grass unasked,
bursts onto Fridays with its own cashed check.
Your youth is collecting appliances and pans,
forks to spear a wish, knives sharper than my anxiety.
Your youth refuses to call home
when I need to hear its voice.
It resists any curfew and instead,
way past bedtime, introduces me
to the way these rooms are sighing,
the murmur of wind's regret,
the evening sky commencing its sure-footed retreat.