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A Wednesday Night's PortraitI let Depression into my room last night. I allowed him to sit on my chest and squeeze the tears out. After a few minutes, though, he crossed the room and simply sat there in the corner. I ignored him the best that I could, but it’s so hard to ignore someone who’s staring relentlessly at you. I read a book in bed, avoiding his gaze, even though it brushed up against mine hard, pleading.
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I felt bad for him.
I let him sit on my lap as I scratched behind his ears. When he was softly snoring, I placed him in a corner and went back to bed, closing my eyes.
He must have left during the night, because in the morning, there wasn’t even a speck of dust out of place to show that he had been there.
Floored PetalsHe drowned the cheap motel room
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in smoke, back in ‘53,
when I was just a bud of seventeen
who had watched herself bloom
in the mirror in her mother’s closet.
I had seen the bloom and the bud
and had wished to be deflowered.
So I had leashed myself
onto the back of a bus
and roared into New York City
like the little dragonfly I am,
falling into deep dreams
on the laps of strange men.
A pale girl with a patched-up suitcase
off on an adventure in the city
with nothing but a few dollars
and a fear of the dark.
The hotels were musty
and the dollars digested,
but the lights lowered
as the jazz flew upward
into a shower of sparks,
and I, a flower shaking off her petals
as she swung into his arms
and into his life.
A life of roads and roaring,
and sitting half-still in the smoke
as he mused long into the night
and down the drain, saying,
“Poetry is daydreaming on paper,”
wiping his grey lips on discarded poems, and
crashing between the waves of sheets.
A life of racing