13/30 Poems in November: Bone Tired

photo-1445127891637-6884935d9a02My bones stopped speaking to me
when I was busy feeding my kids.
They just stopped. They carried on
carrying me, but the conversations
grew quiet between us. I was busy
paying the bills. I was busy taking
care of business. I was busy being
busy so my bones bought a ticket
to the matinee and left me sitting
at the table wishing someone else
would make dinner. I was busy
ranting and raving. My bones
started a secret group to extol
the benefits of bone broth.
My bones creaked and ached
and told me to straighten up
my act. I can’t straighten up,
I told my bones. I’m gay.
They didn’t laugh. My sense
of humor isn’t what it never
was and my pulse is still
racing from all the pills
I’m glad I didn’t take.
The state of our great nation
has never been less great
and my bones were last seen
walking without me somewhere
in the mid-Atlantic states.
When I’m less busy, I’ll find
them at a roadside diner, I bet
they’ll be talking up the server
and finding out what time
she gets off, where she gets
off voting against them
when she herself’s no better
under the new regime.
My bones will see me
coming and assemble
themselves in some new
configuration, they’ll slip
the server a tip and slap
me on the wrist and say
where the hell were you
all that time? Busy, I’ll say.
I was busy and didn’t
notice that you were gone.

13/30

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Donate to my efforts to support the Center For New Americans in Northampton, Mass! I’m halfway to my $500 fundraising goal and every bit helps.

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