by Travis Mateer

I'm sorry you're sick 
again in the summer when
the streets are slick 
with joy and just a smidgen
of vomit

I'm sorry your safe sofa 
on which you binge Ozark and 
Stranger Things doesn't 
drain the urine from your
dumb bladder (yet)

gamers piss in bottles and
eagerly build tomorrow's prison
for the arrival of souls
tied to fragile eggs and weak 
ejaculate 

when the spirits left me
so did the reasons to stay
and I cannot say when these 
heaving rains will ever stop
sobbing down, so

clown the whole goddamn thing
until the ghetto gypsy bus
ejects the last lost soul
near United Way, where money
goes to die

I'm sorry you believe
lies grown so gargantuan 
you cannot see real need
sitting by that neon rainbow 
peace sign

I'm sorry the sorcery 
of convenience worked so well
you now salivate to ring
Pavlov's programmed 
hells bells

let me tell you a secret: God
fed that hungry man, not
this needy writer crafting 
a clever way to humble-boast
his generous act

also this: Jesus called
and he wants his narrative back