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  • Monday, July 30, 2012

    Tonight, I Will Sleep Outside


    I never planned
    on returning home that night.

    I was driving past myself,
    past time that grew foggy
    in the rear view mirror.

    I couldn't figure out
    how many miles were left behind,
    how many turns were wronged,
    how many dreams were flitted,
    how many bottles were opened.

    Yet I could tell,
    by the way fear unbuttoned his chest
    in the passenger seat,
    puffed up his cigarette,
    then rolled down the window,
    that my heart was still there;

    I probably left it home,
    tucked in bed, trembling

    in regret.

    I wish I found my way home that night.

    To the front door,
    Ma glued a paper that said,
    you missed your curfew -
    sleep outside.

    Tonight, mother,
    I will sleep outside -

    a flat tire cast among road wrecks,
    a ghost crossing dead ends.

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