at 4 am i sit down at the kitchen table
to have my tea.
i sit across from the ghost of lily.
she's not dead,
but you could convince me that manhattan is a graveyard
if you tried.
she didn't want any tea- i offered, though.
she kicks me under the table.
i kick back. the chair says ouch.
i'm sorry, lily, i really would give you back your sweatshirt
but it's cold down here, and i hear noises.
i'm not dead,
but you could convince me that my bedroom is a graveyard
if you tried.
YOU ARE READING
Everything left to complain about (stopped) (go read my other poem book)
PoetryPoems and strings of words that don't qualify as poems, from all four years of high school until the summer after freshman year of college. My recent works and anything I continue to write can be found in my new poem book, "Open your hands and say s...
