It didn’t even want to be a poem.
All it was was a topless jug
tied to the rudder of a sailboat
that could still make it to the other side
if the wind was good enough,
but only if one person steered
and the other just kept on bailing.
It was only ever a care-worn cap
hot-glued to a stake at the graveyard,
because that did more to make you
think of the real old head,
the one that was gone now, dead,
than a headstone ever did.
The whole thing to begin with
was nothing more than burnt-blue skin,
lovers’ brands, committed to,
long before the last love’s skin had
even finished smoking. This crap
didn’t set out to be a poem, see.
It didn’t want to be a goddamn thing.
It was just that the hollowness
Of something once full
Crooked its finger.
Made it play at something it wasn’t.