Driftwood
.
I won’t have to see my parents
get old and small
get old like the fruit that I never eat
on the counter bruised and off colored
there is a knot in my shoulder
that is the size and shape of a gumball
and I want to get at it with a screwdriver
when I can’t sleep
I will always call someone
in the middle of the night
and say nothing
say I shouldn’t have say I’ve been drinking
all I do is think about job interviews
think about sinking into the Northwest
where everything is cool and
filtered through blue-stained glass
filtered through the coast
the water is too cold
but you can walk along there
have a garage have an eat-in kitchen
have an old quilt that smells like spiderwebs
and an old t-shirt that you meant to throw away
that you still sleep in
Sludge Month
.
and I’m mad at Rod
Stewart for writing
Maggie May again.
Nobody has anything
to talk about. I don’t
have anything to talk about.
My friend snapped a woman’s
glasses on the bus because
she made fun of his girlfriend’s
acne. Everyone filmed it.
They broke up.
I am not without rage,
but I like to keep it tucked
under a layer of snow
and layer of ice
like the house key
I keep hidden two inches down,
near the empty the ceramic pots. When’s
it all gonna melt? Take the screens out
of the windows to let the unclouded
sky in. Silent midday daydream.
Film me with bent posture
because that’s how I am.
Step on my back.
Film me in the cold kitchen,
the first few moments
like every day I try,
dotted with light, singing,
the morning sun when
it’s in your face
really shows your age.
