“Well, gee,”
says I to Stick Marie,
“I thought I’d hate your company.”
She built this netpage on the web.
All day she sells that girly shit
she knits.
My wife was almost Honest Deb.
This chick, I’ll stick with it.
The kid
that Stick Marie had slid
is crawling in a scribbled grid.
It’s running circles in the yard.
It hardly knows the things I do.
It mews
and doesn’t care when I am hard.
It does because I do.
The boys catch trout
and send me pictures from their boats.
I’m driving still and can’t get out,
trying to float,
I text back if they don’t gloat.
The road
until I can unload
is long and all my wheels are slowed.
These eighteen dogs can pull the weight
but in the mirror of the stop
I drop
my eyebags down and shift my freight.
I’m far from home and there are pills to pop.
July 27
July 27
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