The “Little House on the Prairie” I am
regrets not whittling himself
into a straw hat wearing figurine
who runs out of his mind
to find a kind of silence,
and a way of talking about it,
without coming off like a half realized
lesson about what to do
when one can’t seem to feel it,
or remember that it happened yesterday
at the bus stop.
I don’t know,
I guess I’d like to think that
there’s a way to stop
that monster I half realize I am
who’s screwing with the engine out on the wing,
me doing whatever I can to bring me down,
and enjoy it if possible.
But I also like thinking about
how there’s no way to stop that monster,
and that he can look just like me,
and doesn’t have to be so diabolical
as to try to take me down
while I’m out to lunch.
The monster in me
can buy me a flower and tell me it loves me,
kiss my ear
and run its hands through the back of my hair.
It can smell like limes and vanilla
with tones of coconut.