Woebegone and fire-started,
a lonely boy in a tuxedo jacket
feet tucked under the edge of the bed
(where the
monsters used to live.)
Trousers dashed across the rocks
of his lighthouse closet
where the monsters kept him company for
years.
The door is open, inviting
He is always welcome back
if he needs a place to stay.
Sad little
metaphor.
Turns on channel sixty and watches Sunset Boulevard
for the fifteenth time this week
starting in the middle, right before William Holden kisses
the girl.
Eighteen year old Norma watches his
future self give up everything she has
for one last jaunt
on the downward spiral staircase
and wonders about buying a gun.
Stupid thing to
think of. Sad little life.
The phone is ringing with unanswered questions
His heart is ringing with unwashed vocabulary
bristling for a place to thrive
on the half-corrupted paper. Burnt out pen
lies amidst the lies
that seemed like truths only moments ago.
A letter he won’t bother sending
to the boy on the other end of the phone
who has better things to do.
Let the flower wilt
You have your whole life ahead of you
and years of practice still to come.
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