Poetry

The floor is paved with wooden planks / 
rough and scratched / 
peeling, mismatched

At six forty-six p.m. / 
they’re still laying great big chunks of granite 
 / in the yard

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