A Dirty Trick
I rub my walls down. You rub your walls down.
The old stains come clean.
You’re sore, I know.
If it burns, like a throat cooked by hot wind,
drink your water.
Rub the stain, rub the stain.
Are you tired of this mess, your mess?
I am. Here, sit down, look
out this window: the fern-green grass
cool as pillows.
The outside sky is blue as paint, blue oil.
The oak tree is brown construction paper.
But look, now there’s tar in the grass.
Go a little closer and my sky
just licked your cheek.
I’m sorry, but you’ll have to clean that
up too. Now my stain is your stain.
You clean for me.
Found In Volume 34, No. 02
Read Issue
