You’re leaving tomorrow
19 years with you right down the street
Tomorrow is far away
so we talk and laugh
like we always do
We try to make the most of the time we have
But today is just like the others
I leave your house late and come back early
Without even noticing
today became tomorrow
with no sleep to divide them
The sun shining bright
but a dark cloud is in our hearts
a sinking feeling inside us
Tomorrow is today
but it doesn’t feel real
Not for the first time
nor for the last
He sat alone
filling with remorse
He said to himself,
"Did I blow it?
Did i waste my life
in a frenzy of cocaine,
methamphetamines and Vicodin?"
He waited for an answer
but it never came
I didn’t really want to die. It struck me as a strange realization as I stood on the edge of the pedestrian path on the bridge, looking down at the dark water below, and contemplating the jump that I had been hoping would end my life. Despite my decision, though, it was true that death was not the optimal answer to my problems. I did wish there was a different way. All I really wanted was for the pain to end. I wanted to stop suffering, to stop fucking everything up, and had reached the point that I thought that this was the only way.
The house across from me is vacant. My neighbors and I take turns mowing the lawn, but we can do nothing about the hole in the roof. Through the windows, we can see that the water is destroying the inside of the house. I find it ironic that we are all drinking bottled water now because the city water is bad, and yet even the rain here is causing irreparable harm. What should be a life-giving symbol, water, is poisoning our bodies and destroying the houses. We have replaced all the plumbing in our house, the water heater, the boiler, the faucets, because the corrosion ate it all away.
A towering shadow of a man is all that is left of him,
one of 18,000 people without a home in Detroit, Michigan.
He blends into buildings and cowers under the feet of passersby,
he is not invisible but camouflages himself among the city streets.
His hair is painted pavement gray,
his skin scarred and pallid.
He lives his life making treasures of others trash,
making homes on donated bench landmarks,
and the sooty, littered asphalt in the city.
He walks as if one leg is shorter than the other
At one point, I was an only child, and I imagine that the spotlight shone on me. I don’t remember, however, as my younger sister came along less than two years later. I also don’t remember a time when she wasn’t ill and commanded all my mother’s attention. She was diagnosed at a young age with muscular dystrophy. While my father checked out to cope, my mother grounded herself by leaping into action, doing all the research she could and doting on my sister. We didn’t have much serious illness in our family; in fact, we had several relatively accomplished athletes.
The car parked in front of me looked like something out of a movie. An old, powder blue pick-up with three miniature American flags. I knew the person already but I hated myself for assuming so quickly. The car was a little rustic like the man in my head. I walked to see the back of the car and was disappointed that I was so right: Trump/Pence. The only thing that surprised me was that it was the library parking lot.
What is this doing here? I thought. I was cleaning out the kitchen before my mom arrived
the next day when I found my mug in the cupboard on the highest shelf. I had to climb the
counter to reach that shelf. I expected to find expired prescription pills and a bag of flax seeds
that needed to be thrown out but not my mug. I was drinking coffee from that mug just a few
days ago at 5am while writing a term paper.
I smell dog shit. Not the day old, baked in midday July sun dog shit either. It is pungent and terrible. My clothes are soaked. It could be from sweat from a humid midsummer night or from the dew in the grass I am laying in.