|Jul/Aug 2017 Poetry|
I am painting the shab trim of the house,
suspended between eave's edge
and Climbing Joseph,
working in the too hot because
someone I've tried to forget
doesn't return my calls,
pretends I got hit by a bus, prefers
empty to the lights of this city.
If you ask me my glossy
little face is better than a wailing
madhouse of bleak, or a screen door
that cries out when it closes behind him.
Why can't desire see the end
and be done with it, stop buoying this
cherry heart with whiskey and wishing.
Isn't it worth something to just
stand on a ladder without pitching
what's left of you into thorns,
the feverish head lolling across bricks, gaping
how in this kingdom of expect
and lament nothing works.