April 20th, 2017

The April wind makes the trees sway.

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Out of 23 poems I will write for

This chapbook you are viewing #18

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I’m sober thinking of my fathers

Father who is approaching his final

Hours.

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Sober thinking of my father,

The liar, the bastard smoking black

Off tinfoil.

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Dry, thinking of my brother who’s

Getting out of jail tomorrow.

I’ll welcome him into the shit-show

With a cigarette.

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I sit like a stone who’d like to

Turn into a wet dog again.

Not because Grandpa Louie is perishing,

Not because Dad is worth less than piss,

Not because little bro will be out

Of chains free to the streets,

It’s for no reason at all.

It’s something I just do.

I can taste reality knowing full well

There is no washing it away.

..

Like a stone I sit dry,

Sober, straight.

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With a clear mind I guide my hands

To grab the beer, pop the cap and

Swig.

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I’m throwing moisture on my fur now.

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The only thing it does is help me

Loosen up a bit –

If I even knew how to loosen

Up at all.

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I pace the room a bit,

Light a cigarette,

Keep ears on the music playing and

Eyes towards the page

With natural anxiety pulsing through

My arms, wrapping around my waist and

Jumping on the pink mattress that

Is called the mind.

..

What else is there to write other than

The tiny observations we feel we

Need to note?

{

I have three hours at my disposal

Before it is time to shake the

Buzz and see my sister’s softball

Game.

I’m waiting for my cousin to call

Me in between that time to let

Me know the old man is up for

Visitors

{

While I sit here and attempt to

Make poetry out of my surroundings.

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This room,

A dying relative,

One empty bottle,

Thought.

{

Anxiety

..

The April wind continues to

Sway the trees in a literal

Sense.

{

Our days are still dissolving

Second by second.

{

This artist continues to work

With what’s been given.

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Sitting damp now

With the eighteenth piece

Nearly completed.

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Now it's time for a shower,

Possibly a phonecall,

And the rest of Thursday.

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