There Isn't Enough Sun to Dry These Roses Left on My Lips

This poem was originally published by Whisper&Scream Magazine. You can find back issues featuring this poem and others by Justin Wade Thompson on issuu.com.

the planes fly over head

in the morning rotting rice and wheat in the dark cabinets the silver teeth of children in their beds waking up for school i rise at a reasonable hour take my crazy pills and make a fresh pot of coffee the mailman drops off some books i order thru the mail now instead of going to the store with people and greetings at the doorway bag-checks, scanning devices, barcodes, detectors i read the books and write the authors and dig under the piles of dirty clothes looking for a dictionary and the neighbors make their drug deals the rain comes and goes the pecan shells turn to mold in the mud i burp, i s**t, i look at the trash overflowing on to the floor

i wait for an answer that will never come a phone call, a letter, a check with my name followed by a really big number i look for a clean coffee mug but there isn't one so i pull one from the sink, rinse and start another day.