Styrofoam Wishes


I pretend to like nonfiction

I read it just to prove there is a single

realistic bone in my body, There isn’t.

I am made of styrofoam wishes and

truths I refuse to accept-


like Brannon, age 21, shaken awake

by a seizure that no longer allowed him

to wake again. Just like that he died


Dec 8th, sunny day, I had cornflakes for breakfast

while Brannon’s mourning mother digested the news.

It happened. Senseless. Completely unspectacular.

The cars outside even continued their commute

no one stopped for the grieving parade, it never showed


Dec 9th will come, maybe it will be a sunny day

maybe I will have cornflakes for breakfast

Likely though, I will pick up another fictional story

One with the gallant ending, the fastened bow,

the poetic words. Maybe that will let me sleep

at night pretending those stories are nonfiction-


Pretending that people die when time is used and

tucked away, old aged and wrinkled, rocking next

to pictures of their Brady Bunch grandchildren

who tell tales of their first kiss with the neighbor’s son-

the one with the funny looking braces


that’s how it’s supposed to be,

hasn’t anyone read the books?



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