I’m in a raw mood
where the full fridge
is empty and nothing
in the house will suffice
to whet the palate
there’s a peace 
in this house
that’s gone sour
there’s not a road
or song to fix me
just complaints 
rattled against the skull
impotent hands and mind

where I once could fix
by baking in the hot sun
while my father lay shingle
after shingle after shingle
like an artist

and at the end of the day
I would feel tired and sun sick
but satisfied

I throw words out
into this unreal place
and into people
without knowing
what to feel

so when the day ends
all I want
is a cold beer
and that woman
smelling good

because even though
I’m not losing my lunch
on a roof with blistered skin
bleeding hands and shaking legs

somehow, I’m still going through it