In 1986

I don’t mind washing dishes
It gives me time to think.

Perhaps I can fit in
a few lines of poetry
between tucking them in

and waking up for work,

or should I pretend I’m asleep
so I don’t have to hear his voice
like razor blades grinding my ears
and the click, click, click
of that video game controller;

the chorus to Roseanne reruns
playing in the background.

Let’s face it-

Without those sleeping angels
in the next room, the man upstairs,

and these syllables
that flow, like flowers
through a slipping mind,

I would surely expire,
at 26.

Is it 5:30 yet?



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