In Poems & Fiction

On my street, the trees

don’t know their names.

 

Paper boys are paper girls,

who invisibly arrive and vanish at dawn.

 

Our house, the one

the color of milk,

 

is surrounded by blue, shivering roses.

The shouting windows

 

are sealed, but un-curtained,

so the neighbors can peer

 

into the living room, where no one lives,

as my mom parades around nude, again,

 

to prove to the sofa and chairs from Sears

she’s not dead yet, Mister,

 

not by a goddamned long shot.

 

 

 

Appeared in Right Hand Pointing, No. 60. February, 2013.

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