I write this last week–a week ago today, actually. The title is lacking, leaves much to be desired, but these are largely the therapeutic half-rhymes scribbled in a cathartic haste. Either way, I’m still fond of them. They say something that I otherwise would have no words for.
Not being able to park is a theme here.
I assume there’s too much on the mind
to make sure you fit in between a set of parallel lines–
especially when half the time you pull in crying.
Dying is expensive.
And nothing from insurance is going to help
cover the cost of the empty side of the bed,
the casseroles even though you have no appetite
to be fed,
the apologies for the loss that leaves you
wishing you too were dead.