New Swamp Poem

Fall off the front stairs on the hour consistently.
Get expelled from Saturday school.
Tie her to the old bike rack,
like a golden retriever who’s missing me.
You can go only three days without water;
that’s just the way it is.
Fall off the front stairs, your bruises
set in like a new swamp.

She could never make it as a narrator,
but you got her a lot of interviews.
There’s a really good video of her in high school,
some thing she thought was funny,
the kernel of a Pixar movie made decades later.
We could’ve been rich if it weren’t for execution.

The carpet at the movies has been lumpy
for fifteen years; if they ripped it up and flattened it,
the teenagers would just dry up in the night.

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