If I hear any more poems of naturestruck wonder…

so much depends
upon

a red Radio
Flyer®

glazed with Aqua-
fina®

beside the white
Chicken McNuggets®

I can’t remember my dreams

but they leave me bathed in sweat.

Maybe the problem is 

I still haven’t figured out how

my family was replaced by three

goldfish, named after the Stooges.

The fourth, who arrived DOA,
was Shemp, and he appears to be
unmourned.

Sometimes I ask myself if it meant anything at all—me, you, the roast chicken, those two years together that now feel murky and placed under thick fog. You driving to work after one hour of sleep, week after week after week. You going crazy from no sleep, from too much me, from us taking each other’s brain hostage. You and me staying up drinking scotch, playing chess, smoking pack after pack, listening to Kid A, taking baths on E. Me taking up the whole bed every night, me waking up laughing, me screaming in my sleep. Us sleeping through every Saturday. Your love for dates and numbers.

While Tolstoy wrote outdoors,
his goat
would eye him suspiciously,
making sure he wrote nothing
that was anti-goat,