900
tomorrow I’m showing her
the dock and the men
towing in their haul
tomorrow I’m going
to tell her
I started therapy again
that I’m honest
I’m trying to be honest
and not so afraid of dying
or afraid of everything else
tomorrow I’m staying home
in my underwear
and I’m gonna swat some bugs
drink cheap beer
try to sleep so she’ll
see me again
maybe the beer will
make me love
all the limp melancholia
when she shows up in my dreams
she is fire
blood
slapping me and telling me
all the things I see in
those dark eyes
I wake and hope
I’m wrong
(pray I’m right)
when she stands beside me
in my peasant dreams
I’m a drowned dog
that’s been gone for months
she just thinks I’m sick
it’s a little true
I tell my therapist
I don’t sleep
that’s a little true
so this is 900
I wonder
why I’m so prideful
I wonder
–
this is 900
and I went through the alphabet
because I always make the hundreds
one of the few honest ones
I write
but I wasn’t ready to spill
and I wonder if someone asked
what was true and what wasn’t
how much I’d tell them