I clean out the fridge,
do you remember who made you laugh the most?
Across the street, they die just like me,
one day at a time, hands
holding moments that mattered and some that didn't.
I say oh well to hell,
do my sins seem interesting?
Nah.
I have court on Thursday,
hearing things,
read a book and write me off.
Wayward work is weighing me down,
and I just want to be poems,
placed under windshield wipers.
What day is it?
Doesn't feel like a Tuesday,
but then again what does Tuesday feel like?
Leftover eggs, the radio, grey gray,
fast forward me from now,
maybe then will be worth downloading.
Nothing like Murder She Wrote DVDs
and a Ouija board both haunting the garage,
while we play with our hearts without protection.