I stuff my face food know are not for me, part of a
nightmare I always wake from to get up to pee.
I keep trying to remember what the nightmare was, if she was
part of it, and scold myself for not laying back down to get there again.
In it, I stop at a stand that sells tacos (hers) and Spam
(mine,) confused about who I really am, here on the outskirts of the Promised
Land – which the Boss constantly sings about but I can never reach, love lost
is not what I seek, though as I roam through here I find myself eating a peach,
my life counted out in coffee mugs, not dainty tea spoons, another poet sings
about. I cling to the tunes on the radio and ache to get back to what I know,
we living our lives on the edge of this abyss, the bad land we can’t miss,
working hard for a living to make other men rich – some of the men she once tried
to trickle up with only to get betrayed, when all I want, and often dream of,
is lying on a beach in the sun, out of reach, liquid lunch taking me where my
dreams won’t go, and yes, also wishing, she was lying beside me.
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