hers. not mine.
(photo by kwesi abbensetts)
she left the remains on the kitchen table beside the too thick cream of wheat hoping someone would throw it all away
who'd throw it away but her
these were her dreams
your own troubles have to be poured by you
this was benny jones she loved
the poet who said all the right things at just the right times
we can give our futures righteous names like:
god
truth
allah
wise
grow them from the umbilical
then i step in and cut them lose
but i want no responsibility for what's left on the table
i'll eat in my room until you remove it
i'll make cream of wheat at the other girl's house
she buys pills regularly
she takes pills because she loves the sound of a quiet bed every so often
and when that gets to be too much she calls me over
she sends texts about missing me
and i write back:
i miss you too
benny's dead and the poetry will stop until that table is clean
until that bowl soaks in water and dawn
until you place no blame on me
1 comments:
I really like this...
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