3 Unfinished Coming Home/After Work Poems

The Wrong Feelings

If I were looking for a title I might choose The Wrong Feelings. The wrong feelings, you know,

one of these feelings is not like the others…

Or can you see which feeling does not belong?

Child’s play essentially / so easy to spot because

of course THEY ARE THE WRONG FEELINGS

Anyone can see that!

The wrong feelings put tears in the soup, rage in the linen closet,

simple ass frustration under the underwear.

The wrong feelings love white bread and dark beer mixed with ginger ale

Will take vanilla ice cream also with ginger ale and a shot of rum well after 9pm

but just before 10.

The wrong feelings shun exercise and meditation, feel like

yeah, been there, done that, nah.

My very wrong feelings are so familiar like house slippers only

a few months old and already worn beneath the heel. The wrong feelings know how to create

their own groove, carving themselves deep into my hyperactive psyche

trying to get free on the cheap.

The wrong feelings got legs when all I want to do is sit down

They got time, they got patience

They wrong, not hurried.

The wrong feelings know my name, call me over

and over; they sing

girl, don’t you know we here ’cause we yours?

We not wrong. You can’t read and don’t wanna listen.

We are not what’s wrong here.

We just real.

Fear of sitting down

It’s never fully OK to report the extent or depth of my exhaustion. I have learned to lean in so close to the door frame that it’s impossible to tell who is holding whom or what. I hold myself over the flames that will also roast the chicken which will hold the flavor better if I keep it and myself covered and preserve the moisture of the flesh careful not to let it bake too long lest we become tough and unappetizing. The chicken and I are at risk of failing our potential. The parallels are so striking. Watch now. We are both done. Which of us is the burnt one?

Poem 3

is late and undernourished. lacking purpose, vision, art.

REally no reason such a stretch of words should bother to take up

space.

And yet, here it is, a paucity all its own.

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