Slate -> The Fray -> Poems#62915: "Wild Card
Dirt under cuticles and
motorcycles coughing
to a start
and the way I start
thinking
hours ahead in the week
is all I need
to add pounds to my load
and the gravity
of all worry.
She loves me and I love her not
But
I get knots
in my stomach when lunch
is discussed
and this leads me to think
of prayer and meditation
that the bombing
will stop,
my jokes , that is,
the hammering stammer
of banter
that desires utopia
and the role of a saint,
the fastest disguise
down the fire escape.
On some days the bravest thing I do
is climb out of bed
and breath
before
the brain is aware that
there is light in the world again, the planet has finished a rotation,
to breath deep
in a room with out signature aroma
and become Hemingway
for mere seconds
for the love of attempted haiku
he breathed the air into
his lungs and it was cold and crisp
and good ...'‘
and then shower ,shave
and plot
all the victories that will be mine
like pink slips to expensive cars,
mine like bankrolls of stiff,paper cut twenties,
mine like a solo at the peak of the day,
mine like this laundry
and dishes
that say have anyway you want,
but have it done before sundown ,
or get outta town."
