I barely finish my cigarette.
I mean that I don’t, that something
doesn’t taste right about killing myself—
not like this, not so slowly.
Blood on the inside never quite as good
as blood on the outside.
I set my laptop on the bed, still resting
on the shoe box I use in place of a desk.
I bought those boots on sale to kick
somebody’s ass with when I go back
to where you loved me, where you
slept with her but dreamt of a girl
with no accent, of her playing jazz,
of how she’d turn your body into
a shiny brass instrument & then
blow hard on your heart.
Floral printed combat gear
is funny to me— like the punchline.
See, it’s hilarious. I mean the pain is:
someone doubled over, someone taken
by surprise, someone hit in the nuts,
someone’s lover gone dumb, someone
always in denial, a heart broken in church.
It’s the running joke.
Look, this is my birthday & I’m not
expecting you to come to the party,
I just want you to tell your dad hi for me.
Tell him that someone is aging at the same
rate as he is, tell him that someone else
knows how much it hurts to love his son.