Crack the door and wear my story
down the front steps, whistle
the lessons out loud as I
sketch my friends’ faces
into the sidewalk, I’m
all bravado and polish, grant
immortality to the details,
brush stroke forevers, what
a thing to fold these days
like a canvas over my framing,
paint smears dry like blood
in the locust shriek afternoon.
Just like tattoos and baby names, I
guard my secrets ’til they’re
beyond counsel, my hard-fought
stanzas, growl like
a beagle over his bowl
the moment anybody wanders
in, drop my new town
like an album drop and
watch the questions pour in.
At the movies, roll credits, I
bolt down the steps,
dropping popcorn in my
wake, can’t bear to compromise
the purity of my feelings
just yet, slink out and
dodge the quick takes
with ninja commitment.
I do not dream of a
life well curated, my throat
dry and cracking in
want of a damn good
story, public relations be
damned and poetry
be revered, evident and
lovely, what a life, lovely,
dark, and deep, what
a funny place for a
sunflower to grow.
michael king 