I have emotional problems,
on edge again. The way I cry at night
in the winter
like a song stuck in your head.
It doesn’t snow in Texas
it just gets really cold, and my friends
well they are sad
and my friends their hands are cold
and home is sitting on your porch
sunken into your knees like a child,
wondering questions about the human condition
and no on gives a damn here
how time slows
curls and takes away everything. Where I live
the roads drop off
my words have pain. I can’t breathe or sing at home.
Just sit crisscross in an insulated room
writing letters to the spring with a knife.