Tuesday, December 8, 2015

A Dollar, A Dolor


The Mid-Level Donor
Which one is the thieves' table?
I hear there is where honor passes,
Serene as I myself might be, given
The proper medication, head high,
An angel in the house. Might I find
A place, a welcome here, next to
The electric cable snaking through
The cracked-open window? No? I didn't realize.
My place card misplaced. I'll take
My station at the edges and contemplate
With a careful smile what you've prepared:
The annual installment of longing spread
Beneath the tree. All toys must be wrapped.
All toys must be clearly labeled: Girl seven-dash-nine,
Boy five-dash-seven. All toys must be unopened.

Image: I just fucking love The Knick. It's the show of my dreams.

3 comments:

Slothrop said...

I've seen enough great things end to recognize the feeling.

I read your stories and essays in two or three publications when I was 16 and 17 years old. It's impossible to overstate how inspiring they were to me. Or their role in my forming an identity as a thinking person. As opposed to a high school boy.

The more cynical might say it was all timing, but I was extremely difficult to impress.

michael.t.walker@gmail.com

Anonymous said...

Sally Wilde, huh? I ran across something that reminded me of you, so I decided to see if you were still around. Still posting. And here you are. AND now you have another name! Wow! You are truly wondrous! The more names you have, the more aspects to you! I have this feeling there are so many layers yet to be discovered.......

mark said...

Hi, Are you still here?