this image of sid with
scrawled across his scabbed
and bleeding chest

this admission from his mother
that she bought
the shit that killed him

simple pathetic melodrama
that i carry with me for
eighteen years
until all i am is thirty-three and lost

a father driving home from
the sitter’s house after work with
my son laughing in the
back seat

with the sky a smeared glare
through a dirty windshield
and all of my bitter beliefs worn
like a second skin

and do you understand that
poetry isn’t art?

do you care?

and what about the difference
between confession and

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