By: Richard LeDue

Blunt Trauma

The poems have gone
quiet,
like breathless swearing
that only exists in your head
after dropping a couch on your toe,
but you still clear space in your living room
because what are Saturday afternoons for?
Finding crumbs everyone forgot about,
only to be swept away
without even being spoken of,
while you’re limping,
and trying to act like nothing’s wrong.

###

Folded Neatly and Put Away

Used a towel as my superhero cape
when I was a child,
screaming cartooned heroisms,
while imagining flight by ignoring the floor
beneath my feet,
but everyone eventually falls
(and gets up)
as scraped knees whisper about the future,
where pretending pain doesn’t exist
(behind masks of silence and small talk)
becomes a superpower.

###

Another Pandemic Christmas

Already tired of Christmas music,
even though you only started listening
on December 23rd,
leaving cold beer on the 25th to warm up
your imaginary cartoon heart
that only exists during sentimental times,
yet all that happens is numbing,
which helps with the silence
between songs and the arguments
with yourself
no one ever hears
because you’re polite enough
to muzzle your anxieties with a smile,
and like the magi, you try
to navigate by the stars,
but end up in a pillowtop bed
(without remembering how you got there),
where the darkness does its best
to thank you for being too scared
to go outside
and put up Christmas lights.