—THROW AWAY THE COBWEBS AND THE SORROW

 

 

Plastic

 

Sometimes you don’t 

know how good the apples are 

until you take them home 

and open up the bag, 

is what she said to me 

after we’d had three years

and twelve days together.

Our cat, named Socrates, 

looked up at her with

a metallic glint, evil or otherwise,

and I felt ambushed 

by the love I thought I still held.

There were children 

laughing in the hall—

gibberish sounds, like God

snoring or chuffing at the

same time. Some kid stole 

the flagpole, hoping to

hock it for twenty bucks 

or to resurrect a future.

We were still in bed then,

caterpillared like content cocoons,

poor but rich as fuck, 

you jabbering in your sleep again—

Give that girl a drink!—

as everything crackled and shrank

like the plastic on a hot day 

we would never get back.