An Oldsmobile
with a rusty hood
and a passenger side
window that doesn't work.
A frog in a weird mood,
croaking ribbits about
his boys in beaver town
and gentrification.
A me consumed
with sadness
on the front lines
of restaurant type love.
The end of the world,
a blackberry in my cocktail,
the beginning of everything holy and wise,
and the whiskey nights is why I carry a knife.
I'll be right outside,
caught up in your strange
and this poem,
lucky enough to be in the tree.