Poetry
I Don’t F*cking Care
Sometimes the truth only seems like a bad idea
Sometimes I’d just like to say,
I really don’t care. Just come out and
say it then look away, ignore the tears, the
high-pitched lament, the wringing
of hands as reality wobbles then
crashes all around them.
Maybe a stranger. Maybe my great
aunt it doesn’t matter. What matters
is saying I don’t care.
Then as their eyes, wide and brimming with
tears look into mine, pleading really,
that I’ll listen and act. I won’t.
I’ll just roar like the Marx Brothers
are on TV and when done look back
at them and — Oh I don’t know say again
I just don’t care.
Then when they get angry and the tears
are gone. When rage fills the spaces
left open by hope falling away, when
reason is just a bad idea and the fists
are moved into play — and I’m howling like an
animal stuck in a trap and over the
nonsense coming from my own mouth
I shout — I don’t fucking care.
