Friday, February 12, 2010

plea for the consumption of no one

by Michael A. Flanagan

decent, kind, pretty,
my wife there isn't
a single thing i care
to hear you say.
sixteen years you
have complained
about my habits.
slowly i let them
all go. what is left
of me, i don't know.
today i beg a
crowded city, dive
bars, sirens, broken
heeled girls on
cast iron beds. go
on, keep the silver-
ware, the pets, the
lawn mower, the
pool. this tree lined
street can go to
hell. i'll crawl
the dirty hours
backwards, find
some sudden
dawn, let it
rain upon me

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