Demmin

Painting pictures on my radio

I skin my knee & get bit again.

So sick of this thin shin & fake friends.

Wish I could hold it up like colored glass & see the change.

Fresh sheets & perfume.

A memory left in my room.

Her soft hands & the way they played with my hair haunt me.

Whispered glory past me by.

Old bones empty of adventure.

Except on nights like this.

I catch the tender pitched back at me.

On that embossed razor glaze rolled over with adjustments about thirty minutes in.

Dreaming with tiny mote stars hobbling on the pupils swollen preset distance.

I know.

This written picture missed.

It’s just too off center.

Now I’m under thumbing the remote.

Now it’s TV showing smiling winners.

Now it’s a slice of life.

Of me getting tea off world news tonight.

Time rolling by.

Into memories like nicknacks that glint in the roadside medians.

Sometimes you think I just don’t know what to do with myself.

Comfortably wearing it like sad notes played for table music in Demmin.