Gloomy Sunday

I still owe you
church mice chasing down chicken flocks,
past the puddles of warm soda pop.
You still look like the photograph I kept
pressed to my ass cheek, bent like my neck.
I wrote you a letter and sent my final draft,
but I worry— you already know the content
of all the words I had to scratch.
I have not seen you since love left my heart.
Oh, I am sorry—
those should have been crossed out.

In dreams, I cannot breathe
when you scrub knuckles over my throat
like a dirty boy rubbing himself off
on a washboard in a creek full of frogs
wearing tinfoil hats. I still owe you
what you never took.
My rags.
My riches.
My voice crying songs to the world.
Oh, by the way—
I cannot blame that you left. I may as well
join you so that this letter will be read.

written on 09/12/2010 by: Matt Kane