PLAN B
you and me
terminal union
cancer full-blown
no chance of re-mission
we work hard
not to notice
outside
back porch
I sip cheap red
strum a cracked and buzzing
harmony six string
tell the stars
to go fuck themselves
upstairs
on your back
in bed
Cosmo opened
across your chest
you whisper
something to someone
on the phone
downstairs
in the kitchen
under the ironing board
the 3 year old sits
blissfully occupying himself
with a green, rubber,
T-Rex toy
welcome to plan B
much time ago
I was to be a writer
of words and music
you were going to travel the world
a single woman
scoring brown-skinned boys
taking in the sights
but as in figure 8 racing
we “discovered” each other
an “accident waiting to happen”
made ourselves giant targets
easy marks
lowest form of idiot
the “little-man”
has no such regrets
no fear for what’s future
he’s like a sponge
soaking up the moment
laughing to himself
as he and imaginary friend
slip past the angel
sent to guard Eden’s gate
Copyright © 1998 by THOM KELLAR, All rights reserved
***