Acceptance

Skidding down the tracks
at fifty miles per hour,
bile crawling up my
throat vexing the interstate
hexing the interstitial highway.

The blue sky is a
far cry from the black cloud
hung above my head,
and me without my umbrella.

Maybe metaphors are useless.
I just want to break something.
Too bad my bookbag is weighed down
with tissue and used toilet paper.
There's a time where I want to say
I'm sorry, or
I forgive you, or
I wish this could have turned out differently.
There's a time where all the words
built up around our little brittle
brick walls could have poured in
from a cement truck,
but those fucking union workers were on break
drinking lattes from the trendy joint on the corner.

Besides, you just handed me the keys.
Said "Have a nice life."

That was weeks ago.

I careen down the 42nd Street river,
the downpour harder than my cock during a
spectacular blowjob, and I slide past the vendors
offering soup for the soul, past the tourists
gobbling the city for the last time, past the map givers,
past the guy selling bus rides, past the fliers
advertising commerce or shame (or both), past the comedy shows
where nothing is funny and everyone laughs.

My eyes scream in monochrome.
The devil has half its job done,
just waits for me to place
my other hand to the stove.

But I still forgive you.



Acceptance by Michael W. Hyde is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.