Custom Poem For Debra D (of Soap Factory fame)
Moving In, Moving Out
new shower curtain from Walgreen’s, all folded and reeking of vinyl like the new zipper pouch you got to hold your colored pencils and square eraser in the 4th grade, the smell
Better than new car, superglue, sharpies or leather—hands down enough to give you a headache to the split of your skull, but so full of possibility, pre mold, pre mildew, ready, perfect, waiting to be fucked up in that way only you can, through neglect, disrespect, lack of trying, energy, motivation, desire, the whole cow.
At that pivotal moment, poised on the curb ready to cross the busy street, it isn’t too late, you can pause it all and change things, can’t you?
Color blind, the light turns aqua and before it registers you hear/feel a thump.
To get away from the sound, you spend the rest of the afternoon at the $1 theater watching Outrageous Fortune until they kick you out, their whispers behind you sound like a tribunal delivering a guilty verdict, you laughter canned, and that night you fall asleep with your watch on, thinking one less thing to do when they come to take you away.
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