SHE THINKS I AM BRAVE
BECAUSE I PUMP MY OWN GAS
Last night I cooked salmon
on the new grill
and stood in the kitchen window
contemplating the likelihood of its
liberation through flame.
Even out on the ocean (far from anyone)
I see myself making some ghastly error
born from
inherited ideas of incompetence.
She uses the heft of her high IQ
to place people in
boxes
without leaving her room.
She may think I am brave
because I pump my own gas, and
because I move from town to town.
But it is the living room that frightens me-
that front door
with its pinched lips, and
that couch with those
two long rows
of open
teeth.
By the time this is in print I will be 35. I live in Bellingham Washington
but am open to suggestions. I wrote my first poem when I was ten. It was
called the lone shoe. It goes like this:
Lone shoe, the other one's lost.
Now it's time for you to be tossed.
You're covered in mildew, all soggy and old,
from the last baseball game when I stepped on the toad.
It's time to buy a new house, move out of the state,
I hope the new owners won't find you too late.
I don't really know what else to say, except it is difficult when you start
with the perfect poem. Then it just becomes all about trying to recapture
that moment.
