Free to Good Home
Mother. Highly dysfunctional,
combative. All shots.
Call (724) 657-4986
anytime. Will deliver.
My poem is still shaking in its boots
after listening to hers, read
at a dinner party in honor of linguistics.
My poem felt all Times New Roman, mediocre,
bland. My poem coveted thy neighbors
goods, imagery, implications. My poem
was underdressed for such an occasion anyway,
wearing flip flops and cut offs to
her smart suit and knotted neckerchief affair.
My poem didnt accessorize. It mixed
metaphors and stood wallflowered
during cocktails and dinner conversation,
dissertation, explication. My poem
made only small talk about the weather
and failed miserably at witty banter. My poem
passed the escargot on the left
and drank its champagne before the toast.
Her poem was eloquent, the center
of deserved attention and involuntary admiration.
When her lines echoed Plathian allusions
in carefully articulated syllables,
my poem forgot to excuse itself
and peed its pants before dessert.
Phone Death 3pm
My iCloud is full. Backup, which occurs
when the unit is locked, plugged in and
connected to WiFi, which has failed. I should
manage by storage in Settings, check
my data usage, and manually back up.
I take three steps in reverse, check my screen,
move my face, kill my apps. A lifeline
blinks, vanishes under the steel toe of my boot.