i’m about to go to bed and she tells me
“write a fucking poem” but
i cry “it’s snowing outside,
the lamppost is being driven into the ground,
the cars are sleeping with empty faces,
the road is an endless feather bed.
write a fucking poem?”
i don’t know what it means that
the kid in my creative writing class
with the sam adams hat and stubble
got crushed by the tram in the middle of the road.
“what do you want me to do?” i scream.
“i was thrown out of the wheelchair and broke
my leg for the second damn time.
i can fly so why can’t i walk,
what am i waiting for?”
lights off, the monitor is white blaring blazing.
you know, i was half under the covers when she tells me
“write a fucking poem” but
i cry “it’s snowing outside,
and warm right here.
you’re a voice in my head;
it’s not my problem!”