He's calling me and crying.
Calling
to talk about her.
And I'm thinking about a hockey game
I saw when I was twelve.
I'm thinking of enforcers.
Of giant ice titans, of
saviors
and of five minute time-outs.
A conspicuous trail of five and a half sized
mud
I dragged into his doghouse
when
I trudged into his world.
I'm thinking of that,
while he's calling me
crying
about her.
I'm quite certain the only reason Tom will ever call you to cry about me is if he has just found my corpse. So, that's definitely a plus.
ReplyDeleteHow very, very embarrassing.
This is very good, by the way. If there's a second issue of The Lochloosa Review, I'll send you the submission guidelines and make a recommendation. (I don't think I actually have the authority to do that, but, fuck it.)
ReplyDeleteI think you misunderstand your involvement in the poem. It's not about you...it's by you.
ReplyDelete