I feel like I belong
on a Wal-Mart clearance rack.
Our living room candle
is almost out,
and it’s a metaphor.
Maybe.
My counselor
equated if writing was a person,
I’d be married to him.
If writing was a person,
we might not have
to write.
In a room full of orchids,
you put your herringbone
coat over the back
of my chair and I’m noting
the grandfather
reek of Pall Mall.
It’s been one of those weeks
where time passes in six
hour increments and each class
feels more like a week
than 90 minutes.
Uncle Fred insisted
he wanted my stanza for an epitaph:
“He had peaks
of illusionary cheerfulness.”
I tried to argue
with the same tone
he probably used against
Zoloft prescriptions.
It’s not an illusion,
you’re happy.
I think his crow’s feet
speak for themselves.
Maybe he laughed a little
too hard, but it was never
unnatural.
