
LETTER TO FRANK ON A HARD DAY
Dead squirrel on the sidewalk in front of my house
Not starting to smell but attracting flies
Five days of dishes loiter the sink modest price
for depression some pile for weeks some don't eat
Not quite a callous on big toe just half moon
where the skin's learned to grow a little thicker
Some days the cashiers call me he most days
they don't Most days my body moves just fine
on its own most days I hardly know the difference
between anger and grief between trauma's aftertaste
and saving it in my cheek in case I get hungry
later in case the place I'm going doesn't have any
I've never found a point in asking what the point is
The answer's either nothing or everything
or both at the same time somehow simultaneously
full and empty For every paper bag I save
there's a chicken getting shit on by another chicken
in the cage above its head For every burger
I decline a turtle with a toothbrush in its throat
People were not built to see their actions follow through
People were not built All the metaphors for brokenness
are illegitimate We were flesh in tiny bottles
once and we will again We will again
We'll do it all again and then we'll do it all again
It's okay if this motion makes you sick That's
a perfectly logical response Maybe one day
we can hop the fence Maybe all this is
an opening act You know how rowdy crowds get
when they're waiting You know how much it hurts
to hear the cheers when you step out and a bottle
thrown directly at you hits even if its plastic even if
its air The words you scream into the microphone
don't carry the melody don't do much beyond punctuate
somebody else's lyrics but the song would be lesser
without you The song is dependent upon your inclusion
You're what drives me to the floor on days I need to stay there