Photo by Alexandre St-Louis on Unsplash

I swallow my sorrow, but cannot
digest it, so I tranquilize it into
girdling fat and agree not to bring up
the subject.
                      Rheumy-ness in my eyes
is a slug’s slimy trail of bad decisions.

Sometimes drunks don’t wake up.
Sometime weathervanes spin every
                  and normal is only a concept,
the foggy plastic window in my wallet
where my photo ID used to be.

is a song I sing, hoping to find a way
home by following the melody.

Mike Wilson

Mike Wilson’s work has appeared in magazines, including The Gravity of the Thing, Mud Season Review, The Pettigru Review, Still: The Journal, The Coachella Review, and in his book, Arranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic (Rabbit House Press, 2020). He resides in Lexington, Ky.

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