Stare for 25 minutes at a blank screen.
Write half a poem and give up.
End up walking down to the bus stop bench,
sit strangely erect, look dead
into the winter sun. Hate itself.
Resent the apparent happiness of others.
Miss its daughter. Go back in time.
Wish it had been a better dad.
Leave church after 15 minutes even though
it needed nothing more than the company
of the faithful. Even though it needed
the Word of assurance, the taste of God’s
blood in its mouth. Drive home cold,
order a pizza. Feed itself. Numb itself.
Shut itself down and dream of love
lost, of a girl refusing to speak,
of all that beauty slipping into ether,
nor can it remember kissing her blue
forehead in a Los Angeles funeral home.
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