don't worry, dear,
I've seen this episode
before.
the limo is burning.
the horses are escaping.
phones are ringing.
tears are falling.
the hero is dying.
but not dead.
the mayor is calling.
the conversation is killing.
this fucking poem is writing itself.
with stupid goddamn exclamation points.
the hammers are falling.
the dinners are for losers.
the plane is landing.
time travel sometimes exists.
ain't that neat?
so, I should just change the fucking channel,
right?
and then things will be different.
heroes will still live.
probably not.
the metaphors climaxing
in this season
are laid out like a football game:
to eat or vomit or touch down.
either way, it is just a choice.
the minutes we had are dead
like heroes,
but the sounds and smiles
are still there like fossils.
so, come dig me up some day sad.
rewind.
fast-forward.
give up.
turn the television off.
I love your ugly dress.