I wish death were a man in a black cloak.
At least than I’d have some company.
I shove my face into a wet pillow
and apologize, “I’m sorry, heart.”
I can’t afford applying for a pistol
permit. I’d have to check the box
about suffering and hospitals.
Who else would want a pistol?
What does it matter on a Tuesday
night? The cashier swiping boxes
of sleeping pills, her tired voice
asking, “cash or credit?”
I came to college
the sun with a licked
My father’s face
is a corrugated Mount
He tells me,
“The young people today
have no idea. They think the money
is so easy.”
He asks what I want
“Pizza, or fuck it—
and together we weave
that tighten the Throgs Neck.