dis gust, that roars.
disgusting.
discussed: aid worker plans,
a bombardment of competing
needs, wants, and musts.
the handlebar rusts, as i stare,
with a caring, far-removed glare,
pretending that pedaling on my exercise bike
could save whole islands from drowning,
my hard-won sweat far more benign
than a typhoon ravaging like an alcoholic stepdad,
barreling, bumbling, crashing, then fumbling.
the horrid wrath of heated-up waves, upturned palms
marking death spots like crosses on graves,
and the worst thing of all
is that jesus never saves.
mis trust, that pours.
mistrusting.
miss trust: an english aid worker,
sorting needs, wants, and musts.
and still,
watching anderson cooper explain a typhoon,
all lipglossed, makes me pedal harder,
ascend the first imaginary hill
and wishing everyone, submerged,
so far away, could be at the summit with me.
