I've talked a lot to Cassandra
through fences and beyond bushes
in backyard and graveyards.
about how big the world is
and how small the world is
and how fast the summer went
and how this year is flying by.
"Can you fucking believe it's almost August?"
she said, smoking a cigarette through the phone.
"Can you believe my daughter is going to be 11?
And she is starting middle school!" I exclaimed.
And she is starting middle school!" I exclaimed.
we agree it is all bonkers,
and we are just bozos
bopping around,
both of us big fans of alliteration.
"I welcome writer's block," I tell her,
and she sighs in solidarity
because we both need breaks
from our selves, respectively.
"I welcome death," she says then pauses,
knowing what I just went through,
and how I have a 'No Trespassing' sign
hung on my heart directed at death himself.
she needs a new dryer
I need a new washer,
we agree it never freaking ends.
then Cassandra reminds me
she does not exist outside this poem,
and so I go home.