Fred Aiken Writing

i ate another tube of cookie dough,
but not it one go, mind you,
i don’t want to give off the impression that i’m
sitting in my room,
watching reruns of scrubs
while downing several thousand calories worth of sugar, eggs, flour, and chocolate,
in my underwear,
the ac blaring a cool 72 degrees,
and the dusk sun blankets the dome of collective homes
as far as the horizon scoops them with a fetishistic pink,
while i wait for someone to come upstairs
and discover me half-naked, eating a tube of cookie dough,
while watching a show i’ve seen 10 times over,
and perhaps this theoretical person that i did not invite into my home
would tell me i needed to stop, i need to make better decisions,
that just because i can, doesn’t mean i should,

though i might tell them to shove off,
get defensive, like a piece of cellophane crunching under swift pattering of a chipmunk
diving through the kudzu, waiting to be eaten,
trying to make it another day without injury