A dreamcatcher floats
in a piss stained bowl. It did not catch my dreams
but it caught. Love
with no consequences. No 437 dollars.
I need to flush.
Instead I am craning my neck, so that I can see
myself in the mirror without standing up. Because I can hear
the band without getting off my couch. I can lock the door, say goodbye
without opening my mouth. But I cannot seem to pull the trigger.
Walk back down the seven mile hallway, past Bill’s smoke
cloud wall or Megan’s moans, to climb into a bed
covered in torn down posters from the seventh
grade, ripped and wrinkled, pull them over my head.
Put the period back in its place.
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