I jog poetry, listen as
my keystrokes disturb the gravel and
caw-birds tweet their
distractions. Butter knife forms
horizons on comfort food to
nourish lazy
actions; I receive warm biscuits from
the neighbor, consider torching
them in the receptacle before their
hidden flames can restrict my air-
ways and smoke me
out of
solitude. Crumbly; fingertips arrange
dust on pristine digital sheets that I
can wipe clean, but
never crumple. Direct anger toward
the picnics dangerous, the hair-
cuts superfluous; I pound the pavement
of your morbid fears, tie a cloth to your
lips, a string
around
your finger, a shackle to your ankle, pretend it is
role play. Chair swivels, crunches brown
leaves and succulents; you pause and
ask: “Is this also about your childhood?”
Scoff. We bite differently; pears, with flesh by
teeth rended, are juicy
enough; the only thing about
my childhood is
everything.
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