Going Home

Going Home

“I don’t like you / but I love you / seems that I’m always / thinking of you”

~ Smokey Robinson

He’s writing a sonnet
for his pizza again
but the box is almost empty
and his plane leaves in an hour.
He lifts the cardboard, tilts it in the air
and listens to the crumbs roll—
what a journey. It must feel like
miles to them;

their imperfect tiny corners
sing out with muted scratching.
They’re hymns, or carols maybe.

Outside the window, Christmas is descending
like a gentle snow. He finishes his cup of soda
and sighs. She’s on the wrong end of the equation.
Everything’s been solved.
The numerals are naked now;
X is just a number
clawing at his soul.

Published by dreysleeps

I art and eat and draw and sleep and cry and rhyme. I consume too much pizza and—by all rights—should be dead, but I haven't gotten around to it. Procrastination saved my life.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: