By the time you have read this, I would have already read this poem in front of a crowd of people. But that's ok. Here I am to share it with you all.

So, there is a bookstore in Chestertown called BookPlate, and this year is there 10th annual Poetry Festival, where people from the community can share and indulge in poetry. On the day that I have typed this text, I went to the store to look for some books I am interested in and I signed up last minute. So, I will be reading (or will have read) "Theme for English B" by Langston Hughes, and an original poem, which I will place here.

So here it is. Enjoy my friend.

(note: The formatting that it's originally in is mimicked here, but not entirely. Every four lines is supposed to be a stanza. So yeah.)

Mourning Routine

The moon hangs above with its pale face reminding all whose eyes fall upon it that it too can illuminate against a vast, empty, black curtain.

Finished with the night shift, the moon closes shop

only to metamorphose into

a bright sun that emerges from the ground, and arrogantly ascends as it flashes its makeup across the land with a palette of primary, secondary and tertiary.

With a paintbrush coated in narcissism

the elegant rays descend upon

a lonely plate of food that lies releasing steam as an indicator to nearby hungering bodies that its contents are now accessible and appropriate for consumption.

As the next victim of the Grocery Genocide,

its scent reaches the owner of

a broken laptop, residing on a teenager’s lap in a constant state of violation as fingers perpetually touch press scroll click and rub.

Dreading the tasks of day,

it is taken with its owner, leaving

an unmade bed, desperate for attention as its partner has vacated it for the tasks of day with no one to leave in their place.

The bed is unmade, another unfinished chore.