What Remains Are These
I empty my pockets of poems. They don’t
wash well, tender words sewn with thorns.
Their blue buttons fall off, their themes tumble
into the wads of lint to be fed to the birds.
I empty my days of time. Clock hands
wind both ways. Sometimes I am six, before
my hair darkened and the wind ate my scars.
It’s always almost a new hour, even at
quarter past. My boys rise from
their boxes like cocked Pandoras. I
empty my lusts in the concaves of their
skin. The hand ticks hollow as I
empty my life of
what I know to be bad for me:
cinnamon and sugar
berries flushed with poison
rings made of mercury
bone keys on leather strings
Tomorrow I will start fresh,
lick my fork, love my life.
Tomorrow I will be full.
Back of the Envelope
Image taken with iPhone.
Words written with good company.
Ears On Imelda May, “Big Bad Handsome Man”
Time Taken five minutes.
Brain On heading off to PaizoCon