and i am tired of reading
all of these words i wrote as if
i thought i might actually
know something

i am tired
of these empty notebooks
like mute accusations

if you were in this room
right now
you would smell desperation

would feel a small cool breeze as
the storm pushes its way north

picture it

three years in this house
and i know none of my neighbors

ten years in this town
and i refuse to call it home

and did i pray
at my father’s bedside
in the last days before his death?


and does this
make me a bad person?

i’ve been told that it does

and there is a man

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