@3You, sir, are a lying sack of shit@1, says a pretty girl to a man at the pool table, and he misses his shot. She gets up and kisses him full on the lips. I've been painting my mother's house all day. I've come home to find my brother is sick and not himself, and I don't know what to say except I wish I'd been sitting in that girl's lap. The man leaned down to shoot the 8 in the corner, and she made her valentine ass the target. On my way back, I stop at the bridge and throw a rock and listen for the splash. One time a light came down here on a boy, a Pentecost. Someplace in the night, Mother has forgotten I'm home, and she cries out in a fierce voice: @3Who's there? It's me@1, I say, and then I lie awake in my old bed, talking to myself: @3Who's me? Who's me?@1 -- black dog, sick dread -- but I'm namelessly happy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MEASURE OF THE YEAR by JAMES GALVIN YOU KNOW WHAT PEOPLE SAY by JAMES GALVIN OH! WEEP FOR THOSE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE PALM TREE by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS TO THE UNKNOWN EROS: BOOK 1: 16. A FAREWELL by COVENTRY KERSEY DIGHTON PATMORE ODE TO THE WEST WIND by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE SOBBING OF THE BELLS (MIDNIGHT, SEPT. 19-20, 1881) by WALT WHITMAN |