Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: Poetry

I hurt my back…

and my wrist…

I’m in constant pain,

stop reading this and call someone to come help me,

or don’t, it won’t matter either way,

just make sure the autopsy is done on my good side,

but don’t let anyone see me cry

I really, really, really hope I’m right,

I just don’t know what about at the moment,

but when I figure it out, though I probably won’t, but if I do,

then I hope, I really, really, really do, hope that I’m right on the dot,

maybe an inch or two to the right or left,

but either way,

it’d be fucking awesome if I could be right about whatever it is I need to be right about

a back that breaks, made by papier-mache clapping together until soft bones

creak together on a hot summer night, filled with still breath lingering through the meadows

made of broken cartilage hanging on by a thread, sewn into the a pillow to lay down

and rest and be easy, don’t go yet,

play outside, just get me Tylenol before you leave