April

On a winter morning getting dressed
is the last thing you want to do.
Stand in front of the heater and it's like
being in an oven, but you step away
and shake with cold.  The car is running,

it's dark blue outside.  Won't someone steal
the car God please won't someone steal the
car? I haul my doll house (what a
burden). Their soft faces smile
at me.

Don't they know? Has no one
told them? Don't look at me I just
sleep here. On the chair, behind the couch, behind
the door in the back room of these walls
I sleep if I can and I do try.

I split in two, ribbons of my body
unroll from around my core--
a neat pile there on the cement
out front under the florescents, which cast
everything here with a yellow light.

Even the shadows have shadows.

They say he's handicapped and dumpster
dives, gets stuck by insulin needles.
His daddy lets him cuss, doesn't yours?

Say you love her even if you don't.