this image of sid with
GIMME A FIX
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
