Her And Her Metal
I’m not trying to be modern. I’m trying to be bored.
On the train,
we tell jokes for tips.
I throw dollar bills into fountains.
There is no refund, never was.
You want a closet
where no closet can exist.
The forties on the roof, the broken remotes
controlling the neighbor’s television.
Screams from a party.
Next door, screams from a party.
My bed, a sea of brown and white and shades
of brown and white.
Hereafter I’m all for attention.
The street is yellow-lit
at night and it’s difficult to find
polite muggers so close
to campus. It’s all fists and shoelaces.
Snag some cups,
the clouds are rolling.
Fat men walk down the street
in white t-shirts and bikini bottoms.
It’s beautiful, you say.
The metal came back last night.
The fat muggers in all their glory molded her
into a boring keychain.
I’m choosing a new trail now,
one far away from these woods and far away
from certain smells.
You avoid moss and over-wet trails.
I hope for a lunch truck.