|Apr/May 2006 Poetry|
I align my knuckles in pale rows,
clench the veneer of discount furniture.
My faux-leather chair leaps backwardsó
crayfish flee in a memory of summers past,
aiming blindly for safety in the riverbank.
I daydream Willy Loman's face in my soup,
coveting my button-down schemes;
it is important to be well-liked.