Controlled Delusions
a poem
In the morning's context there are a kind of goodbyes that can fill one's intentions a cup spilleth-ed over the ladies in the Dunkin' drivethru catch a kind of smile that leads to better home lives for the unemployed boyfriends you find yourself driving in the middle lane on the Pike and letting all the overbearing pickups drive 95 up the tailpipe of civil servants and you change the station to the oldies, and are happy to find that the songs there are the ones you sang in high school these goodbyes are kept in a locket a golden one that you save in the deepest corner of your mind for when you think of her again. .... In the afternoon's context there are terse exchanges that can stop the momentum of what was once a grand Friday the guys in the breakroom receive the kind of dead-eyed stare that leads to negative reinforcement of the silly thoughts of false male role models you find yourself clicking through minesweeper aimlessly torturing yourself with the little explosions and imagining yourself imploded and you change the playlist to the one that makes your left earbud hiss a little, and the pain reminds you that you have 4 hours left these exchanges are kept in a pocket in the negative spaces around your abdomen, and eat away at the ulcer that you pounds Tums for anyway. .... In the evening's context there are wary glances that make one dread the conversations and how long you must wait to tell the one friend you have maintained from the cobwebs of elementary school that you both desperately rely on to cover for the therapy you can't afford you talk without direction about sports teams you stopped believing in when your little league coach played his son in center over you and you sit down to write poetry with a soundtrack connected to moments moments unconnected to anyone else other than the you you want to be these tellings are poured into verse and you experience relief from the sounds in your own head for a moment until the words pile up again.




Good afternoon John,
Have you thought about competing for First Things’ Poetry Prize?
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