1882 c/o Alex MacDonald

There is a public risk in living alone. I am convinced everyone
has morals like peeled potatoes in cold water, their brains
are wind chimes forever tinkling. I believe they are good.

I try to be light-hearted like a train toilet, but I too am broken
in a specific way. I hang around, a haunted loofah of traditions.
At night, I scrub my monuments white, evermore lucid.

Hereditary fretting settles and here I am: a dog among fireworks.
But a solo indoor voice never climbs stairs, an oral bannister
spreading its chest. That’s a lie, my upstairs is a roof.

Regrettably I’m full of the moods but I need a lightness. The book
I’m reading reminds me of you and maybe I will step out
from my lighthouse, eat my sandwiches on the rocks.

How would you like to be remembered? I picture myself filled
with green light, each objection a seagull sitting on the sea,
hilarious and stoic. I say it is and it’s true.