June Blooms


why does my stomach sink on

the train, through overpasses

under the sun, all alone

why can’t I smile like the rest

of you, of them, of they who

don’t think to run when the tracks

quake. So I drink, and smoke hope,

compressed cold wild distressed

but not frowning, even face’d

straight through plastic pane rain drops,

primed to cut granite, limestone

the quarries fill beside me.


I Gulped; my mother smiled.

She was ecstatic. She was

singing your praises about

helping her out to the car.

I never lent my arm. I ran inside to cure a hangover.

But I saw her,

the beaming, steady widow,

down the driveway and into the streets,

within view of a bedroom window


alone while the doctor went to work.

So I smiled back at my mother

said That’s great, and

stepped outside to the front porch

for a sad cigarette,

where my best


could, and should, have been realized.


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