The longer he waited, the angrier he became, until he’d had enough, he told Audrey from his hospital bed. She imagined her eighty-one year old father’s fury—his fierce scowl, the way his pink cheeks turned a bright, flaming red. She knew that face too well.
Thanksgiving
I think that they accept me because I’m the most liable to drive around and knock over mailboxes with a baseball bat in gated communities, then tell them about it with cream cheese covering half my upper lip.
Moving Continents (and other poems)
meanwhile, half a year away, the boxes’ future selves—torn and misshapen/
but otherwise intact—sag against a sack truck’s rigid back