A Poem By Mathew Motley Clouser
My cheeks are a beehive,
my mind their insatiable comb.
My gut, an arroyo
awaiting the bombs from above.
Each day, a panting dog
running from snaked yards of hot hose.
Each night the squealing brakes
show no sign that the pads will hold.
With any luck sleep crashes,
mauling—fruitlessly—the old gate.
Tomorrow my face swells
with the dawn-tide, endlessly washing
the detritus (me again),
scalding me—the old steam engineer,
the one who dares to cross
Styx, Styx, Styx—I am not afraid!
My cheeks are red inferno,
my mind, meat on a tight-packed skewer.
My gut, such a literal
casing that glows from the embers within.
Each day is a new balloon
escaping the clowns and their children.
Each night, a thing to scratch,
were it only the day could reach it.