Dirty Desperation
I carefully grab a fork from the yellow-stained sink,
dip it under the rushing chlorine-saturated water,
which scalds my hand, hot like a nice shower.
I plop the filthy fork into the naturally white (but now
a nice shade of secondhand) and red checkered dish
rag, scrubbing away toxic gunk that grew around its
edges in the sink while I ignored the souring dishes
for a couple of weeks. The gross pieces
make my stomach shift and shake like a child’s leg
under a mouse.
Here I stand, washing dishes at midnight,
and wishing that I could do the same with life.
Spinning Wheels and Heart Attacks
I run, trapped in a rat race, legs aching from wolves’s whips.
I scream, wanting someone to save me, to hold my hand,
treat me like a child instead of a grown man.
I cry, realizing that no one knocked me out with novocain
to drag me here.
The truth is worse.
I chose this, because I liked the cheese that someone held
upon a golden platter, explaining that a future employer would
love its taste on my resume.
Life Goals
Unchecked “To Do”lists and a sink with some dirty dishes, a $12 white plastic trash can full of empty containers and random foods I hadn’t eaten before their short lifespans saw their fates, and thirty pages of American literature my eyes haven’t seen, but must read before morning. When I started my routine of flipping lights off in the rooms before I plopped into my mismatched bed, I went to turn up the heat, but there was no flame, so I read the directions on its off-white top, followed the instructions, clearing off my desk during the five minutes that I had to wait (I assume so I wouldn’t blow myself up), and before long, the living room was toasty and I thought,Man, it feels good to accomplish something, and the swelling pride quickly sank in melancholy as I realized how rarely I feel that raw moment of personal satisfaction concerning my skin, my skills, myself.
I love the way you write!