The Most Fun I’ve Never Had
Often I think I smell something
burning when no one else does.
Usually I forget the matches
in my pocket when I do my laundry.
No, you won’t find my fingerprints
in the ashes. That Arby’s? It used to
be a church. Keep a violin long enough
and it will be worth millions of dollars.
I don’t know why but somehow the sky
is bigger out west. Some people say
it’s impossible to get lost these days
and no one would notice if you did.
I don’t believe that. But I’d like to
give it a try.
I used to carry an umbrella
just so it didn’t rain. Before that
I was convinced that the power
of copper would cure me. Thankfully
I have never stooped to ingesting
the powdered bones of rare creatures.
In fact I have set my spirit animal free.
No longer is a wolf held captive
within my ribcage. My heart is still
an elephant though. One that beats
slow and steady. One that never forgets
all the time I spent holding my breath
and thinking it would help my mother
to breathe. Impossible to break your own jaw
by clenching your teeth you say? Watch me.
It’s just a matter of time plus pressure.
The voice in your head is not necessarily
to be trusted. Sure, it is full of facts
about the Empire State Building and formulas
for proper behavior. It remembers
your first phone number and a warm spring
morning when you were six. It knows
a recipe for building a kite and how to
make someone cry. It is so amazing
it can convince you of practically anything.
Sunflowers on Piano With Broken Keys
I used to have to get up
at five in the morning.
I hate getting up
at five in the morning.
I’m never going back
and you can’t make me.
I am not so much convinced
as defeated. It’s as valid a form
of persuasion as any other.
If you want to know the truth
I’m not telling. I marched up
to that ghost and pulled the sheet
right off it. Then I used it
to make up the guest bed.
Look, there are two things
you need to know. My door
is always open, but my floor
is always lava. I used to tell this joke
I thought was funny, but now I don’t.
Not anymore. What’s that you say?
Talk like that feels like a butterfly’s
tongue on the back of your hand?
Not the worst thing I could think of
believe me. Every morning I wake up.
The news is not good. Turns out
Mozart was a pirate. Thank you for music.
Now we never have to be alone
with our thoughts again.
Patrick Meeds lives in Syracuse, NY and studies writing at the Syracuse YMCA’s Downtown Writer’s Center. He has been previously published in Stone Canoe, New Ohio Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Atticus Review, Whiskey Island, Guernica, The Main Street Rag, and Nine Mile Review, among others.