today is the day i ran out of ibuprofen
there's a joy in discovery
a child finds his first four-leaf clover
the first view of a distant place
through a small lens
close encounters with breasts and
an alcoholic finding one liter bottles of filipino beer for a dollar each
a ten in his pocket
and the last pill in the bottle
the morning after.
she's got impeccable timing
i press play and
not unlike mine
speaks out of the little
box. Pithy lines
and senses half-remembered from
the aftermath of a case of something dark.
when the phone rings
i answer too quickly
in one ear her voice says hello
in the other my voice insults
her taste in music and
how she makes me smile
in between my ears there's
one ear is being asked what's going on
the other's given up in confusion.
the phone slips through my fingers
as both my hands scramble
the stop button jams
my snide sentiments
keep betraying me
so i throw the recorder through the window
which is closed--it’s january
the shattering overwhelms
her voice from the phone on the ground
hello? what's going on? what the hell?
this is why i
don't write love poems.
i pick up the phone.
sorry, tv was on too loud.
Bio: Leeroy Berlin was not, in fact, dropped on his head as a child. There is likely some other explanation for his decision to write poetry. You can find links to his work published in a number of online poetry magazines at his website: leeroyberlin.com