Memory lane is a cigarette burning at my feet
Smoldering incense and smoking sage
Cementing scorch marks into flagstones
The first time I finally saw my real father
I felt as though I was losing my religion
My father looks at God like he’s in love
My father looks at other women like he’s in love
If he were to keep track of the notches
Even if he had a four post bed
He’d be sleeping on nothing but a pile of wood chips
Plucking splinters from his head
Everyone I love is dying and I am dying too
I think about this before I sleep
And I haven’t slept in about a week
Through an irrational fear of being impaled
On an errant spring mattress