William James

working class poetry // punk rock performance


unable to corral our sadness
into something useful,
Jesse and I went to
the thrift store and spent
half the month's food money
on BB guns and cracked bottles,
snow globes with Mayberry in miniature,
kitschy statues of bent-necked swans.
We stood them up
against the tile, took turns
shattering the glass. The next
morning when rent was due
we sat cross-legged on the floor,
ate Ramen noodles from the same pan,
counting out what money was left
and hoping the landlord wouldn't notice
our kitchen floor shimmering
like a crystal sea.


[originally published in Ballard St. Poetry Journal]

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