they grind it out
put bone to bone
tap out confessions
wake me up to hear it all
◦ they also built a bridge
from my hip to a fireplace
put sticks and stones
out as concessions
wake me up to cheer the brawl
◦ I’m the little flag decal
on Uncle Stan’s Chevy Celebrity
bright megaphone
oil bust depression
wake me up to sweep the hall
◦ bathroom sink with treacle
stuffed in the drain
good xylophone
vertebrae possession
wake me up to dance a ball
◦ pounding hammer gramophone
by myself, smell of rain
like sweat and spit on a microphone
feels like it should leave a depression
back to bed for toes to claw
◦ left leg is the dial tone
like it wants to blossom
blows the hip like a saxophone
player blows through a recession
wakes me up with dogs to walk
◦ toes dance Tarantella
they don’t do what I say
make the music monotone
put my batting stats into regression
wake me up and laugh it off
◦ left foot writes novellas
I don’t expect you to believe me
they have a certain undertone
foot says it’s an expression
wakes me up with a joke gone off
◦ no one’s on the elevator
the buttons don’t have labels
just colors and it’s monochrome
a shrug in place of a howling session
puts me in bed to poke the moth
◦ dollhouse with no decorator
maybe we got a slow Creator
slippery Good Boy Zone operator
◦ lonely as a dish rag
wrung out mining slag
tossed in a bag
◦ last year’s favorite hashtag
poem dressed up in clickbait drag
mousepad scroll fatigue snag
W. F. Roby is a teacher. He lives in Houston.
