Broken Crow

it's okay, spread the peanut butter thick.

you're back home. sleep 'til noon

and listen to the shape shifters

in the volvo on your way to borrow

foreign movies from the library.

did they teach you french kiss in new york?

did you learn to shave your face close

with dial soap and a steak knife?

how to slickly wipe a sweaty palm

on your pants thigh

before shaking hands firm

with the shadiest show promoters?

i know it's hard for a single person

to fold queen size bed sheets.

you left your reds hat

in the back seat of mom's volvo.

i know it's hard for a single person

to fold queen size bed sheets.

you left your reds hat

in the back seat of the volvo.

she wanted to have it cast in bronze

to be put on display next to your baby shoes

and first buck on the t.v. in the den.

but i knew you'd be back

to eat a bowl of peanut butter bumpers,

to jerk off to the lingerie ads

in the j.c. penny catalogue.

i knew you'd be back.

i knew you'd come back,

to go back to school

or get a job at the downtown library,

the health food store,

painting apartments for ray ritchie,

or to work at the cigar kiosk

at kenwood mall.

it's cool.

just make sure

you get out of here by december.

go to california. go to hawaii.

cincinnati sucks in the winter,

you know that like the bump

on the back of your neck.

it sucks the leaves from the trees,

and by the time the snow is melting,

they always find four or five

bodies hanging by belts

from the train trestles,

or in empty parking lots

slit wrists, turning what's left

of the snow into cherry slushy.

i know,

all beautiful places

are prone to natural disaster.

but being swallowed

by the earth in manilla

beats a slow death

in the midwest.

last night i practiced holding my breath.

my record is two minutes thirteen seconds.

but that was in the swimming pool last summer.

it's easier in water.

just do the dead-man's-float.

let your limbs drift.

don't count in your head.

ignore your pumping blood.

focus on the quiet.