POEMS

 we work against
ourselves
like a safety
running the wrong way after a fumble
the number 3
in the rain
breaking every tackle
we scream
at the screen
as if words
could make a difference
but you’re right beside me
on your phone
and I’m afraid
what I’m trying to say
is I suck at this day-
to-day shit
this domestic
middle zone
so I kick it in the afterlife
like a ghost
with a denim jacket
and bad credit
but a decent
haircut
and a few poems
in my pocket
my shame
following me
like a halo
or a name
glowing
beautiful
useless