Like So Many Sofas Left Out in the Rain

I tore open my fly in the dim-lit room

and shoved into her. Held up the damp

flowered dress. Hand compressing

the silky nape of her neck.

Now, where did that rage come from?


Walk, interrupted by the neon flash

of roadside packaging: McDonald’s cups,

fruit roll-up-stained paper, trash.

Napkins, straws, bags.

Where does it all come from?


Yesterday I kicked the dog,

a swift hit to his brittle ribs.

Gunner yelped. Terror in those brown eyes

and he slunk away to hide.

Where did that shame come from?


Quiet rag-men heaped on the sidewalk

like so many sofas left out in the rain.

Shake a tin can. Not much change left in

this wallet, but he’ll use it for drugs

either way, right? Avert my eyes.

Where does poverty come from?


Jeans dangle a little lower on my bones

today. Walk them all the way off.

We split a cherry chocolate bar and I

spit it in the toilet. Careful now, girl.

Where did this guilt come from?


Mommy, this water is like snow,

so cold. It hurts my toes. There’s

so much, and it keeps falling on

the ground. Where does it go?

Where does it all come from?


Can’t think straight, or sleep.

There’s a story beating inside me,

waiting to shatter my skull.

I scrawl a million lines. Unfinished.

Where do these words come from?

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