by Walker Zupp
I’m looking at seagulls from my room picking at dead things
On the ground.
I see dogs licking their arse, the farmer’s car coming around
The corner. He’s going home for a good shag. I doubt
He’s got joint
Problems. Clouds – I can’t see anything else. I think that’s the point
Nothing here, in a blink or a look – a casual glance at
And their convergence on silence by wet fields and nooks. Notice
Their failures; that’s what weighs them down; ever – present earmarks
Which put wise
And pitch dreams back. At first, you can’t see then;highways, sheepish cries
For help block the bleak view. You look around – perhaps being
Worth more than happiness. It fogs the thickened window; blocking
That picket fence but bloating common sense, somehow: A sense
We all know
But are too afraid to try when we find ourselves without friends
The madness of Valentines Day lies in the vanity
Of love in
The making; all those smiles on crutches, which tumble in
To the dead of night like rain. That is where we live – in a
State or sound,
Hoping that warm hands will wait for us – not the other way ’round.
What weighs me down?