Fred Aiken Writing

Tag: Poetry

feverish, sweaty palms in control of the rollercoaster,
spinning wildly, spinning randomly,
whirling, sickening, vomit stains the sidewalk from the last kid
that got thrown from the ride,
still dizzy all this time later, still thinking they’re in control

April 19, 2024

mister, please, mister

i wonder at what point and at what age
people will stop referring to me by my first name,
and start calling me mister so-and-so,

at which point, i wonder if it will even matter,
i wonder if i will even notice,
or perhaps i will embrace the subtle change of my name
with the graying of my hair
and the furrow in my brow

April 18, 2024

neighborly

my neighbor’s waved at me the other day,
but i felt embarrassed that it has been eight years of me living in this house
and never greeting, acknowledging, or even briefly nodding to any of my neighbors,
so at this point i just try to avoid even the slightest of glances,
but not because they’re horrible neighbors,
i assume that they’re not;
it’s mostly something going on with me, an internal struggle,
preventing me from saying ‘hello neighbor’