Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Untitled #13

It gets cold fast
I start to jump around
Without any clear or logical sense of reality

My body is shipped to the front pew
Eye contact with the stain-glass virgin
While my sorted head waits for the next jolt
I'm not sure which is worse
The homeless shelter
Or the burn ward

Dad aplogizes on his one day off
My hands trying to frantically mask the smell of nicotine
From the upstairs bedroom that is barely mine anymore

We argue
As more mistakes I was forced to make
Come around full circle

I could strangle her
Or wait for a pre-meditated late night pillow suffacation
In any case
It would set us both straight again

Instead, I zone out in the back seat of the rented car
And look forward to my suburban prison
I knew then who would be waiting
And what we would all look like by midnight
Of the same old new age
Still timid
And glad to be back home

- C.W.

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