Shitty Poetry. You’re Welcome

Dear You:

Would you mind very much if I asked you,
forcibly but kindly,
to get your ass back here and let me tend to you?

You need tending to.

Your beard is looking a bit unkempt and your shirt needs a good iron
and I doubt you’ve filled your belly with any kind of comfort.
Your lips are dry and are starting to crack.
You forgot to pick up your fancy lip balm when you were at the pharmacy two days ago tomorrow.
I happen to have a tube in my pocket.
Let me run it over your lips for you.

And your poor hands are starting to ache
from all the words you keep writing to me but then erasing
because you think none of the words will work.
Let me have your hands between mine
and I’ll rub your deluxe lotion all over them in circles while I massage the knots out of your palms.

Sit here in this chair at my kitchen table and I’ll play a song for you
while breakfast cooks on the stove.
Long hard nights deserve bacon and pancakes in the morning;
that sweet batter filling all the gaps in your soul
Let me stand behind you and knead all the rocks from your shoulders
until you rise from the sudden buoyancy of their release.

You can close your eyes if you like.

Just let me tend to you.



You’d die to know I went to one of those psychic websites.
Ten bucks for a 10 minute reading.

But before you commit you can ask three yes or no questions.

Will I talk to you again?
For sure.
Will it be soon?
Do you miss me any?
Without a doubt.

I didn’t commit after that.

It’s Sunday morning from where I’m sitting,
which is in a different spot at my kitchen table.
The other spot I used to sit in is a plot in a graveyard
with your name on the headstone,
a bottle of Jameson and the thick stack of our words for decoration.

I thought you would like that
instead of some stupid flowers or an angel even.

What time and day is it where you are?

You’re just out in the void now.
I can’t place you anywhere.


P.S.  Are you tired of my shitty poetry yet? 

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