Mark Andrews, 04/12

Lying face down in an alley
 
drowning in a pool
of somebody else’s vomit
falling into a warm placeunder goose feather winter covers
searching for my mother
hiding from my father

under the bed is a cracked ball bat
a Latin Mass Missal
an empty nickel bag of chips
a dead goldfish with one eye open

under the floor boards
the landlord’s lower flat vibrates
his snores keeping me awake
with the smell of burning bacon

under the lower flat
spiders are crawling the spigots
of a flotilla of floating wine barrels
in a basement filling with rain water

under the basement
is the devil juggling horse chestnuts
on a hog fat greased tightrope
calling up to me.

Promote. Poetry.
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