Shadows vs. The Sun

Bird hates me. I am a poet.
He says, “I don’t speak
an ass lick of truth.”

“Settle down.” I tell him
and pass the flask
of cheap whiskey.

Bird starts to laugh
and takes a chug
of my liquor.

He believes I am hope-
less. He pitched an idea
for my chapbook.

He suggested I wrap
my poetry around
empty toilet paper rolls.

“It’s going to be given shit
anyways. So why not?” he said.
I stayed quiet after that.

Now, I try to reach the Sun.
Yet, I am still a prisoner,
and Bird died this morning.

 

Previously published in San Gabriel Poetry Quarterly

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