‘Night Quentin


‘Night Quentin

I lie on top of our old
futon mattress not sleeping
shaking like some mad pile
of rebuked biscuits and gravy
tossed into a cold alley after
all the restaurants close and passed
over by things like stray dogs
and particular raccoons
teeth chattering primitively
thoughts fumbling one into
the other like glass bulls fighting
over the over-exaggerated myth
of their involvement with
fragile china shops
I rest my head on a lopsided
pile of spaghetti and count rats
until the moon splits and an
all out fight breaks out underneath
the dumpster
pub tips knifing spoiled salmon
french fries drafting patriotic slogans
onto the brick of dead walls
using the wet blood of mashed potatoes
black bean burgers burned at
the General Zod like insistence of the steak
broccoli mercilessly raped dejur-like
by the soup of the day
explosions followed by the sound
of recent gun fire
I can just make out through the smoke
the subtle outlines of your peas as they
abandon my carrots
leaving me to shake here
until morning
quaking on top of our old futon mattress
wondering how long it will take you
before you start calling your new place
without me home


(from my book Avenge me. Baobob Tree Press)

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