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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.
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  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP