Poetry

The rug in the room looks like Portugal

The Route One Prada 
has seen better days

As the drugs take hold 
the mirror melts

There must be a cruelty school 
or a church of unkindness

I made something 
It’s nice but 
that’s not why I made it

Here on Maple Street 
the blacktop grade is off 
a few degrees…

This is the law 
by which we exist

When I say: 
I want to be something else

What is red, even? 
The room is uneven 
The wind moves it

Just write, the note says 
So I type out some words and 
mash them together