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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=452616" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Morning Half-Life Blues</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Girls buck the wind in the grooves toward work<br>in fuzzy coats promised to be warm as fur.<br>The shop windows snicker<br>flashing them hurrying over dresses they cannot afford:<br>you are not pretty enough, not pretty enough.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Blown with yesterday’s papers through the boiled coffee morning<br>we dream of the stop on the subway without a name,<br>the door in the heart of the grove of skyscrapers,<br>that garden where we nestle to the teats of a furry world,<br>lie in mounds of peony eating grapes,<br>and need barter ourselves for nothing.<br>not by the hour, not by the pound, not by the skinful,<br>that party to which no one will give or sell us the key<br>though we have all thought briefly we found it<br>drunk or in bed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Black girls with thin legs and high necks stalking like herons,<br>plump girls with blue legs and green eyelids and<br>strawberry breasts,<br>swept off to be frozen in fluorescent cubes,<br>the vacuum of your jobs sucks your brains dry<br>and fills you with the ooze of melted comics.<br>Living is later. This is your rented death.<br>You grasp at hard commodities and vague lusts<br>to make up, to pay for each day<br>which opens like a can and is empty, and then another,<br>afternoons like dinosaur eggs stuffed with glue.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Girls of the dirty morning, ticketed and spent,<br>you will be less at forty than at twenty.<br>Your living is a waste product of somebody’s mill.<br>I would fix you like buds to a city where people work<br>to make and do things necessary and good,<br>where work is real as bread and babies and trees in parks<br>where we would all blossom slowly and ripen to sound fruit.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Anonymous submission.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Marge+Piercy">Marge Piercy</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=452616" data-title="The Morning Half-Life Blues de Marge Piercy" data-description="Girls buck the wind in the grooves toward work
in fuzzy coats promised to be warm as fur.
The shop windows snicker
flashing them hurrying over dresses they cannot afford:
you are not pretty enough, not pretty enough.

Blown with yesterday’s pape..."></div>
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