In the Window
The last poem goes only as far as we are willing to allow.
The last poem should show the way — oh, we’ve been dicking around, it will say, but not hardly now. The last poem goes only as far as we are willing
to allow … Taken, like a hostage
or a pill, bottle of vitamin C crushed into orange powder, doused with milk and sugar
and Metamucil, some chai tea you waited for, in a terribly long line
at the Starbucks,
the heart doing flip flops
at the human faces it sees, turned
in double take, quick recognition
and expectation
of hot flash or agony, the last poem a bullet, brought us to both knees breaking
in a sweltering morning, cavern
of strength
through the aftermath of dope dream and too much mocha
makes me dreadful sick, the poem says; and we believe it. Refer to a certain line
remembered from before, to be sure, the 12 Step meeting of addicts who talked
of surrender; and when it got most awkward, hung on
every word, listened with hands clasped between splayed legs
and fingers wringing like two small animals joined by tentacles that should never, ever touch each other, or another; you don’t think you’re able to…
