“After you’re dead – like, at least 5 years after – if somebody finds a poem of yours which is more like a Mark Strand poem – maybe then we’ll publish you.”
I tell jokes to my doctor. Not the kind
about a french fry who’s dating ketchup
but the jokes I put on twitter just before
I’m unfollowed by @IAmSexyBookstore.
“Do you think I will still heal if I drink Sprite?”
He doesn’t even laugh, adjusts the X-Ray,
until he finally avers “Of course! Sure!”
I’m not dying, I should add. Just broken.
A swollen ankle hate-fucked a kidney,
my doctor thinks I’m kidding when I ask
“Who will put up pictures of cheeseburgers
on my Facebook if I’m out of commish?”
Who will attend my life’s dropping hours?
The thousands of razors I’ve saved, thinking
“I’ll just let this go. Sooner or later
you’re gonna have to call me Santa Claus.”
David McGimpsey / Department of English / Concordia University — @DaveMcGimpsey