the last time
I slept in this
bed a wasp
swooped down
and stung me
on the neck
hurt like a
*****
and I didn’t
even ****
the
sucker
I was writing,
just like now,
so I said
“wasp,
you stay up there
and
I’ll stay down here
and we’ll both
leave each other
alone”
he called my bluff
and went in for
it any way
hurt like a
*****
and I had
never been
stung
before
I was sure
that I was going
to breakout in
hives or my throat
was going to
swell shut
it was a terrible
way to spend Christmas
Eve night
now it’s a bit
different
a beautiful woman
yearns for me at my
left
my body survived
the sting but has
grown older and more
tired
the world shifts
constantly
but this room
filled to the brim
with dolls and books
and old broken-down
knick-knacks that once
had purpose to some-
one
has not changed
four trophies stand
on a shelf across the
room
one lays on its
side
a broken camera
rests about me
two dolls hold hands
on a bench
pictures of people;
some that I know,
some that I don’t
and a pair of lamps,
both shades titled in
such a way that proves
nobody really
cares
the only thing moving
is the flies on the walls
and ceiling,
and the quiet, precise
movements of a man
trying to capture an
eternity
Dec 28, 2011
Dec 28, 2011 at 12:51 AM UTC
the last time
I slept in this
bed a wasp
swooped down
and stung me
on the neck
hurt like a
*****
and I didn’t
even ****
the
sucker
I was writing,
just like now,
so I said
“wasp,
you stay up there
and
I’ll stay down here
and we’ll both
leave each other
alone”
he called my bluff
and went in for
it any way
hurt like a
*****
and I had
never been
stung
before
I was sure
that I was going
to breakout in
hives or my throat
was going to
swell shut
it was a terrible
way to spend Christmas
Eve night
now it’s a bit
different
a beautiful woman
yearns for me at my
left
my body survived
the sting but has
grown older and more
tired
the world shifts
constantly
but this room
filled to the brim
with dolls and books
and old broken-down
knick-knacks that once
had purpose to some-
one
has not changed
four trophies stand
on a shelf across the
room
one lays on its
side
a broken camera
rests about me
two dolls hold hands
on a bench
pictures of people;
some that I know,
some that I don’t
and a pair of lamps,
both shades titled in
such a way that proves
nobody really
cares
the only thing moving
is the flies on the walls
and ceiling,
and the quiet, precise
movements of a man
trying to capture an
eternity
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