04-27-2017, 12:49 AM
Roommates
Coked-up woman whom my mother threw a Thanksgiving turkey at.
Coked-up woman’s son who pissed in the closet,
and played a Fisher-Price record player at two in the morning.
A dealer, a bartender, and their live-in girlfriends—who didn’t pay rent—but still
sat in the sunken living room and took hits on the bong like they lived there.
The woman who spilled the bong on me ruining my green corduroys when I was seven.
The teenage girl who got in my bed because she was cold,
and then pointed a butcher knife at my eye while I was trying to sleep.
The baby my mother almost adopted.
The crank addict that had loud sex in my room.
The heroin addict that didn’t wear underwear.
The dominatrix that wouldn’t throw away used sanitary napkins.
The man with many girlfriends who hid from commitment in the garage.
The gay playwright who introduced me to writing poetry.
The stalked ex who was fleeing from an abusive boyfriend.
The girl with the dragon tattoo
on her face (that actually looked like a chicken).
The woman who straddled me and then threw up.
Coked-up woman whom my mother threw a Thanksgiving turkey at.
Coked-up woman’s son who pissed in the closet,
and played a Fisher-Price record player at two in the morning.
A dealer, a bartender, and their live-in girlfriends—who didn’t pay rent—but still
sat in the sunken living room and took hits on the bong like they lived there.
The woman who spilled the bong on me ruining my green corduroys when I was seven.
The teenage girl who got in my bed because she was cold,
and then pointed a butcher knife at my eye while I was trying to sleep.
The baby my mother almost adopted.
The crank addict that had loud sex in my room.
The heroin addict that didn’t wear underwear.
The dominatrix that wouldn’t throw away used sanitary napkins.
The man with many girlfriends who hid from commitment in the garage.
The gay playwright who introduced me to writing poetry.
The stalked ex who was fleeing from an abusive boyfriend.
The girl with the dragon tattoo
on her face (that actually looked like a chicken).
The woman who straddled me and then threw up.
The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson