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Stinkbug
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Archive (Older Bad Poetry) I must have had some bad water
between the gas station or the small diner
and now I'm laying here on the couch with no television to speak of
huddled up grotesquely
like a stinkbug
Who will call to tell me the new reason
why life, or why this life right now
measured in the space between jacket and blanket
ankle and knee, elbow to brain,
all of the life here is more or less comfortable than the air in this apartment.
The man who owns the diner I've been frequenting
he puts yellow lilacs on the each table
or, what I, a layman of sorts, presume to be yellow lilacs
from all of that poetry in school. He says that
the yellow flowers are cheap in town, but one day
he hopes to afford bright red roses
he told me this as I left one afternoon not too different from other afternoons
he said much cheaper would be to close his diner and retire
to the small home he has already paid for and wait for his wife to wither.
Then he will tell stories to his children about he diner he once had
and all the beautiful roses.
