This poem is
At the surface
there’s a flat kiss
like a final baptism
begging me to
take it like bread
held back from supper
for a lost dog.
This poem could save me.
I can feel it trying.
But my lips
while you lie
don’t I know
I wake up feeling a long way from home.
Chiding the good-natured old lady for
worrying so god awful about that dark-
haired child because it will come to pass
that youth will outlive her by a long shot.
And the old woman carries a clear plastic
bag filled with hundreds of pill bottles
slung over her shoulder like Santa Claus,
only she’s not happy. And I’m not happy
with the doctor because he’s a real dick.
Insisting “this time” you’ll have to pay
more than your co-pay. And I’m wearing
shorts in public that show too much leg,
still steaming over the twenty dollars
that dick demanded. And all (of this)
has detoured me from going shopping
with you at American Eagle Outfitters where
today we could take an additional 60% off
leggings made to wear any / where. And
now I get it. I’m a long way from home,
where even ‘there’ was never a hiding place
for too much leg, and not enough youth,
for too many pills, and not enough cash.
This is what I know when I wake at 5am.
after they said mom was in the hospital, i hung up, watched the sun sink into the sea. at 2:45 in the morning i got up, ate some cereal, read some words, thought about joseph’s coat of many colors and went back to sleep. around 8am i woke up from
the sweetest of dreams ~
punching dragons in the gut
sharks in the noses