why do you like my ****** poems?

please break my fall

my knit sweater holds tears in
i fantasize about the old man that might have worn it
he used to smoke, i think

i dream about his mahogany pipe
with it's european engravings

in another life i might have cried at his funeral
but i just have his sweater

and i promise to remember him

i still listen to our song

i just cry at all the parts
that are supposed to make me smile

my coat buttons rolled down the drain on 4th street
i watched them as they were carried away by wind and rain
the ring on my left hand got caught in between the couch cushions
i left it tangled up in the coffee-stained threads
records go on playing until silence fills the room
i don't even take the needle off

but i wish i were the buttons, the ring
i wish i could put the record away

i just want to want something

who can tell us
that clawing the thorns out of our chests
is wrong?

these roses aren't for you