“My truck is the size of a green wheelbarrow full of dead horsepower.
I dug it up in the cemetery. ” ― Jarod Kintz, Sleepwalking is restercise
This poem is the stale beer left overnight,
it’s a Tylenol breakfast
and the grime under your fingernails.
This poem is ambition of your spilled oil,
it’s persistent chrome on rust,
and kudzu left to cover graves.
This poem is anemic soot,
it’s mold on schoolbooks,
it’s the gloom —- scratching underneath
before you fall to sleep.
This poem is what always should be lost,
what should be buried deep.
But at the end its headstone legacy
remains a hungry heart.