Pardon me boy, is that the Chattanooga Choo Choo?

my sanctuary roof
with the drums of
smaller feet
not cherubic,
neither a metaphor
in Paradise
my upstairs neighbour
made decisions

might not be all bad
were it not for Mr. Fuckstick
i’ve knocked on his door
and looked into his eyes
his dull
un-apprehensive eyes and i
do not envy him
his devices

puttin’ it to a young
that can’t be twenty yet
she is
and just young-looking
for her age

i remember being twenty-something
dating a lithe double zero
full of want
and directionless aplomb

now at thirty
i’m already too old
for social butterfly adventures

they must have given him
building blocks or Lego’s
for the noise he makes
little King
smashing castles
across the kitchen linoleum

i remember Fuckstick when he first
moved in
such a depressing sight

he sat
without furniture
in his empty living space
without curtains or a telephone

for weeks
wrapped in melancholy
and what looked like
a Strawberry Shortcake comforter

he’s replaced his old teal rust-rocket
with a four door maroon Pontiac
moved the lil’ Missus in
and i could give two shits

i do like to sit with a glass
of wine and my Glenn Miller vinyl
at suppertime
without the ruckus

stomping at me to turn it down
i would, if he’d ask
but i doubt very much
that he put his Poke and her Baggage
on the lease

so, to Hell with that mouthy bitch
i think i’ll turn it up

this helps. this feels like

… ahh

© Emerys Watchel, 2016 All rights reserved.


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