roamer of suburban streets
in a plastic shawl,
coiling plastic bags around your forearms
each, like a dumbbell,
shifting your teetering weight,
why today do you travel
without a golf club, your guide
to the gates of strangers? are you waiting for a gust
to flatten you, for the Waterhouse kids—
your long time torturers—to poke
at your upturned corpse?
if I crashed through my window
would you even notice
the shards, me shouting
your name,
my blood-soaked palm reaching
for your liver-spotted hand…

 

In 2011, Brendan woke up on a lazy Saturday morning—probably hung-over—and suddenly began writing poetry. He stumbled across Poetry Circle and knew almost immediately this is where he wanted to be. Brendan is a teacher in the Boston area who enjoys cutting edge rock music, quality beer, and thinking about humankind’s impact on the planet.

 


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