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I drew a figure
With my finger
In the window fog,
Fell asleep
And wiped it out
with the sleeve that I leaned on.
It’s been a long way home,
With winter coats,
Those school bus days.
Father smokes his cigarettes
Mother cooks our meals
I’m mumbling
All rosey cheeked
Hoping someone hears.
It’s a silly sort of medicine.
Something lingers after dinner,
I wait to see you smile
I put one up to my chest and feel my mother’s hand on my hide. She’s screaming
“Those things are no good
They'll fill your lungs with soot.
They’ll put your mind at ease
When they put you all to sleep
And i just couldn’t bear to see you die.”
It’s a silly, sort-of-medicine.




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Head North Buffalo, New York

Cosmic Rock from Buffalo, NY.

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