The light went out in my part of town.
I get hollow and my stomach fills with acid
when I don't have distractions.
So I drove. Ash on my seat, dirty
snow dusted windshield. I left the sun
roof open. Careless.
The light blinks red - evil eye. Blood bath
on blacks seats. I ended up in a pharmacy
parking lot. Practically desolate.
I couldn't make a choice under the fluorescent
pressure, so I took a pretty pink drink
and three disco CDs.
There's no rush anymore. Too easy.
I'm not proud.
I'm don't feel guilty either.
Peeling the plastic packaging
on my Donna Summer CD, my feeble
nails start to crack and flake.
I open the roof, door to the pregnant moon
and the shattered glass
she spread out across the sky.
Moon roof he used to call it.
One of few things I can't seem to forget.
I'll call it star roof instead.
The man in the smoke shop
ID's me. Dirty windows, unlit
sign mark my surprise.
In my despair I realize
I kept more in the center console
for a moment like this.
I blow smoke and I sing
and I dance when the signs say stop
and when they don't.
The blood bath on black seats,
the cold air bathing me,
this feels like home.
YOU ARE READING
My Year of Unrest: a collection of poems I wrote in 2020
PoetryA collection of poems from 2020 that act as my diary as I deal with anxiety, starting antidepressants for the first time, the pandemic, and the unstable socio-political climate in the United States. Critique is welcome and encouraged. Some poems ar...
