just another day, another dollar-two-fifty
for wind-blown, euphonious poetry
Mimi Wolske
All Rights Reserved
© sometimes the ceiling drops on her
she never knows what chapter she’s in,
she never understands the plot, and
she never knows what to do next.
whipping out her pair
of used scissors
like an old
gunslinger, she
cuts down snow-licking sunflowers
before they become
massively dehydrated;
it’s her own private
blend of
brain-hatching
unhappiness.
there she squats sobbing
tears of dirt,
legs bent like a
grasshopper’s
with her knees at her
shoulders,
her arms tight around
those coltish legs
as if to prevent them
from
wandering off and
leaving her.
stretching for an
explanation, trying
desperately to fall
into
the rhythm of the
story, but
she never knows what chapter she’s in,
she never understands the plot, and
she never knows what to do next.
(painting by Michael Cheval)
