Auto-complete commits to my mistakes
(my mom becomes a mountain). One minute’s
effort on the internet fails to explain
how white words were etched
into old photographs. I’ve no third thing.
Reading this to myself I convince myself
this is poetry (I have a lilt). Having misread
a text from a friend about another friend
and how things went, I lost it—yowling in
the basement about commitment
I assumed the worst. I ignore my mother
and she has to text my wife. There are photos
of my son’s namesake’s wedding and I
made no comment to date. What now?
Rush to do better? Yah, I guess so.
I open Facebook again with empty hope.
Props to jesslyn “we can’t see if the foundation is cracked” delia for getting me all parenthetical. She too is writing a poem-a-day for National Poetry Month, so follow her too.