blunt force wind
a jigsaw poem
falls
I slice
the day into
bite-sized
pieces
you find
in molded baggies
under the bed and
in the drawer
next to expired
coupon smiles
I stand
in line to dine
behind the altar
bakers bake
snippets of
New Roman flesh
to type
on the ribbon
of my tongue
I smoke
on matchbook looks
hand-dipped
behind the counter
by the guy
with the long
slow eyes
(strike
anywhere)
I park
my repo'd joy
in the garage
hand over
the keys
drop my
penance
in the meter
stay tuned
for six o'clock sound bytes
of me
a memoir montage
'cause
no one
reads her
cover to cover
at the end
of the day
once upon a time
they'll say
and my
how her knees
have grown old
I hear she slept
with one hip open
how
bold
