“The guests arrived at the summer house.”—Pushkin
This snowy morning I'm soothing myself
with bacon, which I haven't tried in years.
Hot chocolate, china. Why not. And this wee bread I
found at Kroger packaged in half a loaf for divorced men.
No woman to remove my bandana, or point her fork at me.
No one to ask, after a fall on black ice at work bounced
my head off the pavement: Baby, do I need a
Cat Scan? Ha! she'd say, picking at her pale lipstick
You def need a brain scan. No seriously, I'd say,
do you think I should go to the emergency room?
And she'd reach over in bed, take my hand, and say
firmly, I'm your emergency, baby. I'm it. Right here.
All rights reserved.
was reading horoscopes for the dead the other day, and thinking, well, a poem a day should do it, until this feeling passes, that i do not wish ever to write again--
and one took form
which prolly sux, let's face it