Poem | he’s right, I was getting off.

I told the nice police man

that I always knew

when I was about to be

fired.

Because every meal

is form McDonald’s,

and that I failed

to pleasure

any of my lovers.

My energy is that

those on chemo know.

My hair falls out just like theirs.

Stress, not really?

I barely feel

anything…

I catch a glimpse of myself

in the reflection

of his window.

He takes my small bag,

tells me,

“you got off

easy this time.”

But for now I’ll

seek as closure,

as closer replica

to columbian cocaine;

I’ll drink until I forget my goals

so I can live them

before waking,

with the traction

like running bear-foot

on ice as it’s breaking.

“When you’ve been running

for as long as I have,

you can no longer balance

standing still,” I say.

And he repeats himself,

“you got off

easy

this

time...”

And drives away.

…