They illuminate the night with spunk and spandex,
breathing life into the apartments they enter.
And when they miss class or a workout or their sorority social the next day,
they act like it was all worth it,
like they're here to learn but choose to live instead,
even if they wake in an alien bed.
And then there's me,
burrowing in my bedroom,
making a home for myself in my notebook scribbles,
praying my poetry will speak for me.
All my poems are prayers
sprinkled with insanity.
But no more insane than those who communicate
through howl and hoot,
bray and banshee,
vehement to the root.
So I wonder, in the end, who will bear more fruit-
them or me.
