Everyone is taller than me. I am dwarfed by the simply above-
Rejected, out on a wire he writhes.
Why so thirsty? How are we so desperate?
There’s a picture of a poet above the bar
on the cover of that vinyl record sleeve:
Graham Parsons, king of honky-tonk & heartbreak.
The bottle continues to let me down, buddy.
less than five
ain’t high bro
I make the sign of the cross as a fire truck
goes by, but it’s an act.
I pull out my headphones during ads;
I can’t be bothered being told what to buy.
I have enough on my plate.
A woman talks creation with some strangers and her husband.
What to do, how to go. They chat on mortician conferences
and friends buried next to children; the couple talks unmarked graves, no coffins.
They’re striving for death to be ‘pure,’ minimal.
When is it not?