A drop of water races down the windshield of a 98’ Honda Civic.
Art feels queasy from drinking too much milk with his coffee.
There’s a battle in his inner eye and recovery cannot be seen
in the distant future.

Garden snakes wriggle between the blades of
grass while the lawnmower hums
like the orange glowing streetlamp
outside my apartment building.

The cold wind spreads a blanket of wrinkles
onto the pavement smeared with blood and
my pa’s tears.
He spent his entire life hiding in a turtle shell, his head
buried in his guts.

The highs and lows fluctuate within the soul
of a poet who stabs his pen through
notebook paper staining his
leather ledger with black ink.

Songbooks bungee jump off the scaffolding of
red brick tenements as the moonbeams trace concentric circles
round the puddles of
dead rainstorms on the pale concrete.

My pa picks up a bow and arrow,
plucks the string back,
and shoots the target painted
on the granny apple falling

from the heavy branch of the dogwood tree.