Plain American Language

I cut a sliver/of WC William's finger
and placed it inside/my philosophy...

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Untitled, In Bed, August

I try and think of the last time
I held on to love. I roll over.
My back cracks.
It is suburban night and
a small inkling of skunk
is seeping through the window.
I drove in the snow
in mid-February and almost
died on the icy highway.
A truck skidded; so did I.
This was on my way to New Hampshire
and I clung to her like
the steering wheel when
I finally got there. The air
conditioning feels good now,
though it's certainly no lullaby.
Under my thick blanket
I must think of thick blankets.
That's the only way to sleep:
in the down of thoughts
lying under the comforter.

2 comments:

Kateri said...

andrew i love this poem. it is so warm- ok maybe kinda lonely and whatever, but you capture so much. did you just write it?

thehubcapkid said...

just wrote it, well, a little while ago now...any suggestions?