—WE GRIP, FOR ILL OR GOOD, WHAT’S MOST LIKELY TO ABANDON US

 

 

Needy

 

The crows inside

these walls are

needy bastards

pecking sonnets

on the frail beams

dictating their own

Dead Sea Scrolls.

When I pound,

they peck back,

and then we’re like

the Middle East

tossing our bombs

in each other’s yards on repeat.

It’s enough to make

me stop drinking,

drive my car off some cliff,

confess to a murder

I didn’t commit,

but should have.