Joseph Milford

56

you saw a lightning bug once. you were a child. now you moth towards convenience stores.
what i could have been meets the thing i was supposed to be and they drink coffee laughing.
pinball machines rust while terrorists conspire. it’s all magnificent somehow. backpack nukes.
i made a pizza once. i made two. a Chicago and a New York. then i made you kill a schedule.
my humility is a crust on the cusp of a crest of those whose lineage could evolve towards suns.
she sweeps the floors all day after the haircuts; her mind full of histories and sweet forgets.
Mavis at the Waffle House at exit 41 Highway 89 South. Mavis with few teeth and less advice.
buckshot stop signs. rebel flags. cowhide attire. Orion chasing the bear near austere moonsickle.
bushwacked world of locust mutilations. the veins in my hands becoming guitar strings. cables.
i put the monster of tenthousand universes into the closet and my daughter never opened it.