September Third
I’ve got nothing but a bag of grass and all my problems.
The other day I gouged the surface of my new kitchen table
with an old microwave that was too big, wouldn’t fit anywhere.
It’s like me. Awkward and misshapen. Lit up and humming.
I wonder how many fingers have pressed its surface,
how many faces stared into its radiation screen waiting.
The neighbor’s dogs are panting at the door. Their tags
are jingling, they are crying. Somebody needs to drag
the garbage cans back behind the house.
originally appeared in Forklift, Ohio: A Journal of Poetry, Cooking, and Light Industrial Safety
I’ve got nothing but a bag of grass and all my problems.
The other day I gouged the surface of my new kitchen table
with an old microwave that was too big, wouldn’t fit anywhere.
It’s like me. Awkward and misshapen. Lit up and humming.
I wonder how many fingers have pressed its surface,
how many faces stared into its radiation screen waiting.
The neighbor’s dogs are panting at the door. Their tags
are jingling, they are crying. Somebody needs to drag
the garbage cans back behind the house.
originally appeared in Forklift, Ohio: A Journal of Poetry, Cooking, and Light Industrial Safety