We’ve been talking a lot lately
me and the stray dog ridden with fleas
out behind the diner wrapped in chrome
as if the owners somehow
knew about the future.
It doesn’t say much back to me but let’s
me know it’s listening by nodding
at me occasionally with its calloused eyes
that barely even see.
I’ll find it dead one day I know it
with its guts spilt out here somewhere
in the park from some punk’s idea
of anything to do.
We need to take the time to process
where we’re moving to
because the van is already loaded up
with all our shit we should have ditched
so many years ago. I just think we need
to take it slow and not rush into any
new world orders without a rope tied
to our ankles so the ones we left behind
can pull us back if that’s what’s needed.
I don’t want to be a part of all this history
repeated in the snow globe she likes to tap on
with her finger nails so purple
from the the polish.
I know this isn’t loud enough, in fact,
it’s almost the equivalent of whispers
into the mouths of open caves
where they are waiting in their chains
for anything to wake them up and show them.
Don’t tell me what to do today
I think that I can choose that for myself,
and if I can’t then put my ashes
on the shelf.

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