Thumbs Up



Returning to the ghosts

of my worst years

my branding moments

the growing pains

that left me lanky and flaccid

and I come down the winding stairs

of the estate


cadavers in the clearing

orange flag markers in the mud

of my fat

To be the putty scraped on the door mat

before she steps inside

I let her into my mind

she told me I need


I laughed like

“Couldn’t you tell?”

I love like

wet stones in hell

I repent

all the years

slurping out of

malaria puddle

I dream of a different suburban wetland

a frigid lack of inspiration

and weathered skill

here I am,

some pitiful sponge

sliding race track straws

up my pucker fish

to find a spine

to graze her cheeks

hold her close

as she chews on the palm of my hand

hacking bread knives in the kitchen

four fingers down, a thumb left.

What else could I possibly give?

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