the youth.

I saw an old lady fall today. She buster her nose and blood came pouring out and so I put out my hand to catch it. She was wearing white and so- i didn’t want her to stain her nice blouse; but when i helped her up the blood on my hands stained her shirt. People gathered around her as me and a friend placed her gently on a bench. Old ladies came over to gossip. They said there’s still good youth out there. Good youth. What made them think there wasn’t. I wonder. Now I’m in Girouard park watching the good youth hip hop dance on a piece of cardboard. Legs spinning, head’s turning; the music is in control. Muscle fibres busting through the skin. I’m hypnotized. Like watching a bike whiz by. Like hearing a whiz splash onto a brick wall. Like watching a building crumble. I used to want to dance hip hop as a young child; despite winning some dance battles I never pursued it. There’s too much stuff to choose from. Too much stuff. 

I had just eaten a chicken leg and some fries; then i smoked a cigarette. I am the youth. I dig my toes in the dirt to secure my spot here. I’m writing on my notes app because I didn’t have a journal on me. I stare down at my phone, something I’m used to. My feet are full of dirt, and they’re dry; eczema. Just found out eczema doesn’t have an X in it. Something I wouldn’t have learned if I wrote this in a journal; Ignorance might’ve been bliss but now I can spell a bit better. My hands; also dirty. I washed them for a whole minute to get the old lady’s blood off of me. But now that I’m looking at them there’s still a bit dried up underneath my nails. I prefer dirt. I sink my fingers into the ground beneath me. I am beginning to root. If it started to rain I’d grow into a tree. Maybe I’d be worthy of squirrel to climb me. I could be a good tree, too.

I’d be a tree If I could drink margheritas.