All This Debris Is Starting to Clog the System
A poem for when missing someone makes the soles of your feet hurt.
the way diesel exhaust
clings to leaves,
and drunks in the bleachers
throw D batteries
onto the field.
Meanwhile, we get zapped
by lasers for lack
of altitude on days
I miss you
so bad the soles
of my feet hurt.
I love the hobbled
and the speed racers too.
In between
is the feedlot’s maze where
real estate gets sold
amid miles of unspooled
garden hoses siphoning
gas from the refinery
to thirsty bulldozers,
to a row of encroaching
storm clouds forming
heaven’s breadline,
to pregnancy
during a recession.
It’s timber time
across the valley
right when the trees
are in bloom—
good for combing bee hair;
bad for asthma
or getting heatstroke
while wearing a bunny suit.
We flush the kidneys
clean of their sugar,
then lie and describe it
as a dry sneeze
for the camera in authority’s
broadcast booth.