January 2006 /Volume Seven / Issue One
M. Frias-May
Seattle

Everyone is asleep in this room
On the 17th. Itís a tick into Fatherís Day
And Iím thinking of you in Saint Peteís.

Street lamps brighten all the way to the pink
Neon Farmerís Market. No oneís out, pops.
Itís ghostly and you wouldnít like it here any

Way. Bad hair, tattoos, piercings, a fucking
Gong show, though, I hear the fishingís good.
And light is in the sky till ten. We mostly ate

Walked and said no to panhandlers. On the way
Here, a gray Chevy cruised by. Windshield was
Cracked and there were boxes in the back seat.

The driver weaved in and out of rush hour like
You used to before you had your beer. Carved
On the trunk were words that summed you up

In the sixties and me right now: I wasnít born  
With enough middle fingers.
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