I am so tired of
I my
sucker-sided shower caddy
falling,
with a series of crashes and
a thuds, like
unseen slapstick,
m and of
wakeful
hours, after
s dreams of a
zombie apocalypse,
o a thinly
disguised xerox of The Last of
Us, like, get a life, brain, at
t least make
up your own nightmares
i and of
r reaching
for Visine bottles, only to
e knock them
over, as if clumsily, but it’s
d just bad
design,
and of
o my
nightgown, bunching up, exposing my
f self lewdly
to my own sheet set
and of
war
and
doing the
dishes
and
hearts that
house spines (pitiless artichokes)
and
gravity’s
effect on
me and
my shower caddy and
the whole
damn
thing.
--
Slightly after Justin Marks, whose book You're Going to Miss Me When You're Bored I read this week. All due respect to him and his credits (and I even enjoyed the poems, for the most part), but it made me feel like poetry could be any old thing about your life. So here's that. I had something I needed to express.
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