September is my least favorite month
no particular reason just is. The way the air
sometimes hangs lethargically
and can’t decide
whether it’s going to warm up or not.
Just do it or don’t already and in the vast evening
I pour smoke through my nostrils just because
I can. Ashtray is ragged.
Light thinning over
the trailer park where I imagine they cook meth
in the little white shed pinned between
the clotheslines and evergreen trees.
I should be out living my life
but social anxiety.
I should be out in the world instead of
safe on my porch, and I should be
telling various people what I am feeling
but I’m not sure anyone cares.
I should be out reading my poems
but I’m not.