Trip

No sleep for us

ate shrooms and sandwiches and

thought too much

interrogating the mayonnaise label and accusing the convenience of bread for the apathy of roommates and president.

Did we gnaw all of hope and history with our grinding jaws and weren’t we really building?

 

You sat behind the screen door smoking and gazing like a snake

it's the come down

You, wafting limber acrobats of smoke pungent in the way of bitter, good things

You never say much but what you say you mean,

best and subtle things

like seeds that fall and grow and drop entire braeburns on your lap, to drop your jaw and guard until you feel very stupid for knowing anything and your mouth is very sticky.  

  

 

 

 

© Jennifer Chaussee

 

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Author's Note

This poem has never been in a work shop.