poem: walk on anyway

A Very Earnest Answer To The Man At the Library Who Read a Poem He Wrote Called, “Why Should I Save the World if I Won’t Get Laid for it?”

Save the world,
because sometimes,
when they are bound to fall,
pennies pirouette
before choosing a side.
A danced defiance in light of gravity:
they spin anyway.

Save the world,

because dandelions
don’t have God-plans.
They just turn
their lights off,
and scatter in pieces,
spending all winter
behind leaves,
or caught between the tread of trucks
or teeth of brunchers.
But then, in spring,
despite all odds,
they pop up again,
breaking cement with petals
just to find a way:
A daylight defiant
but they impossible anyway.

Save the world,

because somewhere,
someone
is asking a dream
to show its passport,
or painting it white
and stealing it away,
or oiling it with doubts
so it will slip and skid.
A determined defiant–
it walks on
anyway.

Save the world,

because city streets are
ballrooms of pennies
cracked by tiny planless suns.
Because on those streets,
a man is selling paletas,
even though
everyone told him
he would not make it here,
even though
the work is many times harder
than a hard life,
but his dream is so big now,
it can talk to other dreams.
He hands a small girl
un fresa paleta
and listens to her plan
to save the world.

Save the world long enough,
for her
to save the world.

Save the world,
because
you
WILL
get laid
(to rest),
because your light
will go out,
because
we all have one final
pirouette
before having to choose a side.

The right side
is dandelion-wish,

The right side
is penny-luck,

The right side
is defiance.

The world is
being covered in cement,
pulled apart by gravity,
and is always, always spinning
to its end.

Tiny defiant human–

Get up.

Get up,
and save it anyway.