August 27, 2011

if you know

it’s alright.

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August 22, 2011

What he knows is the feeling,

Waiting with his hands shoved deep

in the pockets of his

Anorak,

Winter in cold maine,  on the stoop,

(Let’s be laden with snow and

Fond, hurting memories)

 

There’s a bowl, cold cat’s food,

(Here, I have eyes,

I run on my own when you leave

Doors ajar)

He’s not fond of it,

But

He’ll put up with it for the light when the

Screen door creaks open.

August 15, 2011

This is the kind of man who has a wife, and a child and an apartment. Works a lot, works hard, no white picket fence, but this is what the American dream seems like to me. This is what he feels like, his voice and his body and crooked teeth.

It scares me, and I escape like a rabbit, but carefully. There is no remembering what I say, making my exit.