Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Last Place Prize

You can't make assumptions about destiny
There is a glow to rain on dirty sills
Trucks circle neighbors whisper in the mailroom
Lacquered oafish pretending
Moist and half-crocked
The mercury from broken bulbs jiggles
Shoulder blades ache on box springs
Humming the whole apartment shivers
Wrinkles in the sheets leave imprints
On your face the stakes are so high
The weather making it all dank and effortless
The pleasure of the text isn't in nuptials or vows
Letting pass each day a tally of totals bleating
How many days can you get away from the day
It's still a numbers game
In the bags under your eyes--the last place prize
Your shirt is stained with peanut butter and raw honey
Hunger isn't a symbol people are dying
It's the oil from fat tempted by fate
Without looking like an ass you know something.

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