Monday, June 16, 2014

this isn't a sad poem

last night you called
drunk, made me describe the marble steps where we met
as if it were the first day
of a week-long monopoly game
and you've got all the railroads.
i pay my property taxes in clothing until i am naked
across from you, bared chest and in foreclosure, offering my 
forearms as restitution, my cracked turtle shell, my raw 
for the earthquakes
i left in you.
we tore pieces of each other away and i think about
that marble nearly everyday.

i think about the pictures of you as a child
staring down at me like some sort of
stained glass martyr;
"is your love solid
enough, will you let me down?
do it gently like
placing my Grandmother's horse figurine which means nothing 
to you 
but everything to me,
softly on the table as if
it would break
if you dared wonder
about it
too roughly "

you are missing your front teeth in my dreams
but you have them now-
your school portraits don't need me
neither do you.
i guess it comes down to
how much you care
about monopoly debts.

tonight i'll call
drunk, tell me about the flowers in your backyard
tell me to come over
and bring 150,000
pink bills
i would, i will.

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