you bought a house
then decided to take a wrecking ball to it
and i stand before it and you
a peaceful protestor
hands flailed open eyes stern
against your eyes hoping you’ll hear me say
“stop this now”

that’s the thing i liked about you
you were ferocious
unafraid to work hard
unafraid to let the world splatter paint
at your abstract painting
but the gallery has such weird hours now
and rumor is it’s shutting down

don’t do it
it’s not a game
it’s a symphony
it’s not a chessboard
it’s your fucking life
and you can chase gold
but you’re missing the rain
identify the beads of sweat
that pour down your face
are they crocodile tears
or jet fuel?
your choice

but i’m hoping you don’t, man
it’s your decision but i hope you don’t
we’re children thrown into the lion’s den
but while we’re shivering in the shadows
we can at least practice our roars
and i know it’s in ya
i can see the cacophony percolating in your drum
there are monsters waiting patiently
in your tarpit stomach

when the earth opens up
they will stare in awe at the titans
that you send sprawling from your arms
but if you don’t
maybe i was wrong
maybe it’s not your time
but fuck it
answer me this riddle that perplexed my bones
for two solid decades –
when will it be?


Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

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