Matt Urmy
Photo: Shereen M
Yesterday morning I ate cold grits images
of my son lying in a hospital bed leg covered in bandages and burns
Today on the drive to work my stomach growled as I imagined
him there unconscious in that room innocent and maimed
At lunch I made a heavy soup seasoned with online-news pictures
Refugee tents in Africa Blooded children of Palestine
In the evening I sucked the relief of colored leaves and light wind
sipped the tea of after-rain mist and hummed to myself while I strolled to the car
Weakly tried for tears all the way through the rush hour traffic
while the news-voice droned on and on, “more economic…children dead…”
At night I gulped the pizza of solitude laughed as my record player leaked wine across
the floor then crawled to the speakers and licked it up like a dog
drunk in the dark I forgot the day’s trappings and
drifted into the pond-song of a dream
until the hunger pains of morning’s blazing alarm
hexed me back toward the pantry of the world’s coal dust kitchen
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