If I lean my ear on the table
I hear the scribbles
And whispers of class
My eyes follow the horizon;
I see the soft wood dimple
With words from kids
With empty on their minds
And Tim Burton films in their inhalers
I write poetry, I guess
If I lean my ear on the table
I hear the scribbles
And whispers of class
My eyes follow the horizon;
I see the soft wood dimple
With words from kids
With empty on their minds
And Tim Burton films in their inhalers
Wake up
To electrodes on you
Plugged in
Charging up
Or don’t wake up at all
My lungs shook
Dialing three digits
And waiting for the pick-up
Yes, hello
Yes, meadow lane,
A car, yes,
Um, he’s alright
I think, yes. He is.
He is.
The crumpled wheel snapped
Like those crackers you get at church
With the wine
No, the grape juice
Too sweet
And stale
And probably
What electrodes
Would taste like
Duels between lightsabers
and rounders bats
Dandelion fluff
in heads of sunny hair
Prickly grass
that stuck to the backs of our sweaty fleeces
We carried miniature crowns
on our pinkies
And rearranged the vegetables on our plates
into smiley
smiley faces.
You asked me what my childhood was like
And I could only tell you
In games of consequences
And bulldog.