this is a bad poem. don't read it.

[yellowbellyworm]

the sun's been out
for hours, and no
one's picking up the phone. i
don't
expect that. i

don't expect anything. the chess
pieces crawl carefully back to
my side of the board. (i think
they are
frightened)

(that i will knock them
on the floor sweep them into the
dustpan leave them out with
the
trash)
and instead
(pick the
ugliest of
sweaters from the "free" bin, drape it
over
my bones, and put on those
shades that make
the world
melt, so i can believe just a
few more lies)