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His Dad Used to Be Like That
His dad is probably out running, Even now. Even though it’s early. I hate poems that start like this. I hate poems that end. January seems so far away When I get SAD in the summer. A woman hangs her breasts over An embankment. A kid on a bus fingers A drunk girl. All his friends videotape it. No one cares. I feel tired when I think about it. The ladder of violence. How we’re too sleepy to fight When we get to the top. How there is no top, really. I once recorded him yelling So he could hear how he felt In the night. Even now. Even though it’s late. |
