SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005

JOHN SWEET

 

Depression

 

each day with edges

to sharpen my teeth on

 

each room in the house of truths

filled with corpses and

ghosts

 

and my son crying in the hallway

and my hands clenched into

useless fists and

the first drops of rain coming down

hard against the windows

 

the factories abandoned

and the parking lots overrun

with weeds

 

your sister with her lover

 

with the words he carves

across her naked back for her

children to read

 

and maybe a street

for each president or maybe

one for each dying city in

upstate new york

 

maybe the fact that

anywhere you choose to go

has already been poisoned

 

dead trees rising up

out of black water

 

burned-out trailers along

the highway's edge

 

stay in any one place

long enough

and it becomes your tomb

 

 

John Sweet is 36, married, a father, and writes from upstate New York.

 

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