I wait on table; the tips are below average.
Our small village is dying. Tourists pass us by,
as if we have vanished from the land.
I sigh a lot these days.
I remember reading in the good book, As above, so below.
Daffy talk because I still don’t know what it means.
I wish I could lift myself high, fly away
Watch the people below become too small
to figure out what I’m looking at.
Vanished, like our poor village,
leaving me to float away…
© Anita Dawes 2021