@3You, sir, are a lying sack of shit@1, says a pretty girl to a man at the pool table, and he misses his shot. She gets up and kisses him full on the lips. I've been painting my mother's house all day. I've come home to find my brother is sick and not himself, and I don't know what to say except I wish I'd been sitting in that girl's lap. The man leaned down to shoot the 8 in the corner, and she made her valentine ass the target. On my way back, I stop at the bridge and throw a rock and listen for the splash. One time a light came down here on a boy, a Pentecost. Someplace in the night, Mother has forgotten I'm home, and she cries out in a fierce voice: @3Who's there? It's me@1, I say, and then I lie awake in my old bed, talking to myself: @3Who's me? Who's me?@1 -- black dog, sick dread -- but I'm namelessly happy. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LITTLE GIFFEN by FRANCIS ORRERY TICKNOR THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 13. ON LYRIC POETRY by MARK AKENSIDE THE LIVING BOOK by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES THE FELLOWSHIP by KATHARINE LEE BATES TO HIS WIFE WITH A KNIFE ON THE 14TH ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING DAY by SAMUEL BISHOP |