by Spiel
roberts is so glad to be free
of those god-forsaken sandstorms
glad to sink his heels into real dirt
he has worked before
but he cannot know these bodies
occupying the same address
where he’s been mailing his checks
they have the same names as those
he’s been receiving goodies from
jen and tiffy and billy lou and john
they watch tv at the same address
he’s been paying big rents on
all these years
but even though they have
somewhat familiar faces
he’s got nothing to talk about
with these strangers
and the square truth is:
he just doesn’t have to kiss
nobody’s ass
no more
and he’s already said his “last words”
every ten breaths of his life
for the past one thousand days
Neither the NEA nor an MFA influences Pushcart Prize contender, the poet Spiel, in his diverse works of personal conflict and social consciousness, published frequently online and in independent press journals around the world. His latest books are: she: insinuations of flesh brooding published in 2008 by March Street Press and once upon a farmboy published 2008 by MadmanInk.
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