The foreigners approach, sunburnt, skin
detaching. Folding chairs from the sky
fall onto them. I am the crowd imagining
my own fromness, wondering what will happen
next. You cover my eyes
with your body. I am happy.
Afterwards I sleep. Dreamless.
I must have a mental illness.
I have ice. I'm doing ok.
The polar bears are coming, the news
reports, hooded at greyhound stations,
vandalizing vending machines.
Don't go into the bathroom. Don't see.
Pummelled by metal chairs,
helicopters drop, each into their own
personal volcano. I lurk.
And You Get a Lair! by Matt Broaddus | Garden Lavender Poetry Reed Diffuser
$20.00Price
