He accused me of writing confessional poems, issues for therapy.

Pull shut the heavy velvet curtain, sit on the hard mahogany bench, 

smell cedar with bitter elderberry, stained-glass shadows laying 

a heavy romantic carpet down, leading deeper but not deep enough.

Everything I say seems that way but what I am not saying is the work.

Step outside to another grey day on Lorain Street, I blow my 

nose into a handful of dried Sycamore leaves, throw down

they land next to a tangled wad of dirty yarn,

partially consumed chicken wing, 

an unidentifiable twisted metal rod

belonging to the town’s maintenance machinery.

Remember that poem about the warm oatmeal cookies,

robbed from the porch of a college student, lovingly

wrapped in a silver box with purple ribbon?

That poem– a smoke screen, deflection–avoiding

‘Miller’s dog’ and ‘Corby’s beer”.

 

image:  Lori Morgan Flood

 

 

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