Another Small Apocalypse
These trees are just one more thing we need to pack before day breaks.
We are free. Like coyotes we run far away. Wherever I go,
I leave notes, tucked into walls. Solitude is something people used to pay for,
they could afford it, but now… Upstairs I search through cabinets for medicine.
The buildings are all worn out husks, starting to slouch toward the ground.
These events are being recorded by a temporary historian.
I hear a voice describing something that might have once been flowers.
I looked into the empty fireplace, I’m holding an empty jar, and I wonder
if night is just one big shadow. We try to create the things we knew,
we’ll find a place for them, we’ll make room for them, and we’ll distract ourselves from the need to eat.
David Wojciechowski’s first book is Dreams I Never Told You & Letters I Never Sent (Gold Wake, 2017). Other poems can be found in Bateau, Jellyfish Poetry, Sporklet, and elsewhere. He can be found at davidwojo.com and on Twitter @MrWojoRising.