by Joseph Goosey
It is ninety seven degrees here and I cannot feed the homeless.
A rail of a coworker says to me "Your legs
are pale. You need to go out
and get some sun
on your legs."
I enjoy shaking sun off like skin- leaving it for the bushes
and the squirrels to cloak
meaning I'm hardly "into it."
Thirteen years ago my father knocked the peanut butter
ice-cream from my hand, tossed me
into a one-ton Toyota and sent my action figures,
business class, to Florida.
I never proposed a formal request for the sun.
She could flog herself into assassination
and I would not attend
July 16, 2009
Labels: Joseph Goosey
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