Let’s see. The average death date
of an American male is July 17.
I don’t plan on an average death,
but i’ve been on plenty of average dates,
and let me tell you. It’s in between
like a thunderstorm that darkens the sky
and then, inexplicably, passes by.
She goes home, or you walk her there.
Nothing out of the ordinary about her
hair or limp, nor of yours.
Your corduroys are full of burrs
as you hang them by the cold fireplace.
The average living room late at night
is full of one person’s regret—
someone said. As you sit in your boxers
nursing a bourbon, realizing at last
you’re supremely suburban.
• • •
Sunday, May 19, 2019 at 10:34 pm
I love this poem. Flows like honey!
Sent from my iPhone