« Jennifer Pruiett-Selby | Contents | Emily Bludworth de Barrios »

Jack Christian

A Song

 

Following the sidewalk I gather clues left by my psychologist.

 

Stepping out to take a call I find I’m locked on a small balcony.

 

Calmer now but still unable to accept these bogus pet fees.

 

At home enamored of a series of links leading near my credit report.

 

I check the weather as if a watchdog of forecasters.

 

My bar-mate turns to me and says, “Brace Yourself, Honey.”

 

I’m seeking divorce again in a program meant to quash my fear of divorce.

 

At the mailbox awaiting a “keyboard condom”

because in three months I’ve thrice spilled beer on my keyboard.

 

I awake and realize tag sales are self-serious yard sales in essence.

 

In a white room I’m belching your favorite song.

 

These glowsticks are for practicing.

 

This 3 a.m. furniture-moving is to accommodate you.

 

The hawks are in residence again this month above the interstate.

 

Where was it one learned words don’t mean anything?

 

I’ve corralled many bridegrooms when they’ve sought to vamoose.

 

The college kids are roof-tanning

and I admire their effort because roof-tanning seems uncomfortable.

 

Worrying over everything and also assuming nothing,

I proceed like a baseball game

and go about stapling white bikes to street signs.

 

The dog and I form a man-dog combo and eat potato chips hilariously.

 

If you’re far, have a look at my shenanigans;

if you’re near, let’s meet for beers!

 

I’ve counted each dimple in the drop-ceiling.

 

A bicycle appears on a tree in my yard

and I leave a somewhat friendly note requesting its removal.

 

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