Today's poem is by Jeff Alessandrelli
Understanding Oliver Twist
Every orphanage is a womb
towards a bursting point.
Birth is sheathes and sheathes
of paperwork, some signatures
and the hopeful solemnity of a handclasp
while walking into a fluorescent-filled room.
Oliver Twist was a 0-section
that snuck away
and kept on running.
He eventually learned how to steal,
learned how to shape the idea of a mother
out of a hot meal cooked
over a low fire,
the starlight over his shoulders
so blindingly blindingly bright.
I'm nothing special.
I always touch the straw to my lips.
A person is considered crazy if
they only have one story to tell.
And every orphan has at least two.
Copyright © 2015 Jeff Alessandrelli All rights reserved
from This Last Time Will Be the First
Burnside Review Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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