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What we do
in the kitchen light
dipping in bushes,
to stay human:
in thrift stores
for Marley Marl mixes.
Take pills and tchotchkes.
Listen for frogs.
If I seem to stir,
crack beer.
Tell the kids
the air feels crisp.
I’m melting.
You slip away,
making a day of it.
Neighborhood goons
pantsed me,
which afforded them
a matinee
for my big wooden
shelf.
Drunk with hope.
Thinking only of the garden.
Its hold over me.
Sunday, swim night,
bare thighs glinting in the moon pool.
I go where her swimsuit
interjects. Some days
she puts out an affidavit on me. Others,
she’s a wax figure at dawn.
And I’m here in the grocery store light.
My investments plummet like a fridge.
Considering my inclination for disasters,
I’ve had a day of it,
jet skiing through the cathedral.
What’s more scintillating than pillow talk?
She crashed her dune buggy into my bed
with a dubious look, refusing my Caesar salad.
You get the vibe.
I told her
I had no idea what I was doing.
Twitter: @brutalisttruck
IG: @buffalowing66
