sometimes it’s fun to clasp around silent letters
while mispronouncing words made of careful syllables
while tiredly huffing in diesel fumes
praying to the god you know
and hoping to not be put
on some island of mispronunciation
branes sprouting out of limbs
caught in a fire set by
adolescent dreams holding secrets
of great affections that are directed at no one
in particular
antoine, if you’re read this,
then know that i felt uncomfortable with your driving this morning,
weaving in and out of traffic like a moonraker
snorting cocaine
while eating processed sugary food, like Little Debbie’s
not to say that i think this poem will make you stop your reckless driving,
but i still feel it necessary to at least let you know;
it made me uncomfortable
Fred Aiken Writing 