Like a moth
to the flame
like a simile
in a poem
like a punch
in the face
like a horse
in its stable
like a bird
on a wire
like a neglected
bacon sandwich
like your mother
last Tuesday
I like
to watch you sleep

On My Mind

for crying out loud
every time I think about you
I get an earworm
and that’s not cool
not cool at all
so cut it out
stop being so memorable
as everything wrong with my life
is clearly your fault
you monster


This poem is nonsense
because it is not a poem
and it lies about itself
and its name is Bob
and it will thank you for not forgetting that
since if you do
it will have no identity
no purpose
and will be forced to go back to waiting tables
though it will really be dead inside


The painting’s eyes follow me
around the room
then up the stairs
to my bedroom
and through the wardrobe door
into the magical land
currently embroiled in a terrible war
that can be solved only
by the arrival
of the one true king

I cover the painting
with a blanket