The man with the plaid shirt speaks to me
from his hospital bed. He is trying to
change the channel on the television by himself.
He cannot rise from his bed. Doctors orders.
Cars speed by on the freeway, screeching brakes.
Old news reels flash in my brain, 1997, 1999,
worlds I have never been to.
The man with the beat up truck was taken to
the police station downtown. He is afraid of satire,
afraid of walking outside to see which dog was
barking. My eyes burn like red peonies. They're
just metaphors. Sometimes, when it rains, my hands
grab at the cold water that runs down my skin.
The man with the black glasses does not desert me.
He sees me when I get the mail, get the groceries,
when I want to dance in the rain. The man with the black glasses
finds something to do and the sadness clings to me
like a spiderweb. The wind whispers lies in the dark.