This Poem Isn't About You
Staggerin'.
Swaggerin'.
Tail freaking
Waggerin'.
Tripping down a rabbit hole
and climbing out a sewer.
Nappy golden
bright brown monkey mama,
pickin' at her eyes.
I never cry.
I never die.
I never stop to ask for directions
or the score in the big game.
And you have 10 seconds.
Have some drugs.
You now have 9 seconds.
I know all the right people.
You now have 8 seconds.
I'm dangerous and funny.
7 seconds.
I think I'm falling.
Sorry, times up.
What about the other 6 seconds?
I left them on the farm with my grandmother and my dog.
I traded them for liquor and rough sex.
I burned them, in the box, without even looking inside.
I sold them, along with my soccer trophies.
I cooked them up and shot them into my tit.
And then I left them at the river.
four seconds is all
anyone gets.
no one stays
to pick the scabs
and cuddle,
except the children
and the assholes.
Doug Baldwin drives a forklift in Minneapolis.
