i wrote this by myself

i should probably write something, but i'm stuck. writing workshops are the only motivation i have, and i'm not in any right now. so here's a poem i wrote this summer, sans motivation. well, sans workshop motivation. i used to have this friend walter. we fell apart somewhere, but i still think of him everyday. he was the motivation for this:


We went differently

You were inside bowls
of changing glass, mixing
with heat, green green plants
against your pumped limps.
Seeds swallowed,
throat kneeded,
stretching for more air
against your insides.

That was when I was learning
how to eat alone.
How to ask for a table for one,
to concentrate
on a spot on the wall
while couples mixed their hands
and stared. I ordered
easy things – fries, lemonade.

I heard you got fired,
stole guts of rusted carts
that left traces
along aisle legs,
lung linings, burnt thumb
prints on the body
of your bic.

This restaurant isn’t crowded
anymore. I eat soup now,
not afraid of missing my mouth
or staining the shirt
you got me for my birthday.
My fingers are thinner, my rings
slide off in dish water.

Your mother says you won’t
graduate. She says you
spend days spray painting
rocks that line her driveway,
fall asleep with your bowl
still lit, sparking
fear into knuckles
that cradle it, ashes shake
into tin palms, calloused.

I’m moving tomorrow.
These restaurants
are expensive and their menus
give me paper cuts. I found
a town that has a diner.
I will start over.