As the pain from stubbing my toe on the
kitchen table traveled up my spinal chord,
and the cup of coffee fell through the air
in slow motion—I longed for the time when
I didn’t need all this stuff; not just the piece
of shit kitchen table or the waste of time
coffee machine, but the idea that somehow
in the mess I was making of my life—I still
believe I can make a difference.
As the coffee cup and incoming pain passed
each other on the way to their respective
destinations, I also remembered the time
I said no to the French girl—who wanted
me to move with her to the South of France.
(insert expletive here)
between us, she said,
you are the one running away,
and I am the one
I awoke this morning to find a large bruise
on my left arm, but unable to explain how
it got there I dismissed it as one of those
things, and didn’t think about it again—
until just now, when I noticed it in the mirror.
The shape of a hand has become clearly
defined, and the way in which the black
and purple fingers wrap around my arm
it’s as though someone tried to shake me
awake in the night—but, there is no one
else here. And, after laying my hand on
the bruise, it is clear the bruise is not
self-inflicted as it is an imprint made by
a left hand. Now, in a religious sense
I am not someone who believes in angels
and demons; and, as much as I like the
idea of vampires and werewolves, I don’t
think I was visited by one last night.
However, it does appear that while I slept
someone inside me tried to get out.
Forever and Ever
It was early evening. In a parking lot
across the street from the local bar, an
11 yr old boy sat behind the steering
wheel of his parents car.
There was a chill in the air. The boy’s
mother had left the heater on to keep
him warm. The boys father promised
to return with some chips and lemonade.
The streetlights came on. A husband
followed his wife in to the video store.
The dry cleaners was already closed, but
the boy could see someone in the back,
still working. In the diner, two men sat
alone at different tables in the window.
A waitress in a pink uniform moved
The first few drops of rain sounded like
little feet scampering across the roof.
Then it poured. The streetlight high above
the parking lot, flickered its discontent.
That’s when the boy saw her.
Barely visible in the rain, a girl about
his age was sitting in the back seat of
a white sedan parked outside the video
store. She, too, was looking at him.
Self consciously, the boy fumbled with
the radio dial until he found some music,
and briefly considered sitting on some
school books to make himself look taller.
When he looked again, the deluge of rain
had stopped; but the window had filled
with condensation and he had to use his
hand to wipe away the moisture.
The street light flickered again. The boy
could see the white sedan, but the girl
was no longer there. He wondered if
she was hiding or perhaps, now it had
stopped raining, if she had gone inside
the video store or the diner.
Frantically, the boy wiped away the
moisture from the windscreen and
passenger side window looking for her,
then climbed in the backseat and
wiped away the moisture from the
side windows and back window too.
Still, he couldn’t see her.
Then, as the condensation began
to return, he saw the love heart she
had drawn in her window.
The Angry Poet
My friend, the angry poet, got
a call from a man at the poetry
society this morning. Apparently,
his latest poem I Killed Bambi
was going to receive an honorable
mention, and a small check,
in this years poetry contest.
Unfortunately, my friend thought
the man said horrible mention
and told him to go fuck himself.