In the morning I eat bacon, hash browns,
and a crepe cooked in the microwave.
I drink vanilla from a glass
filled with black seeds
to help get my pill down.
I stick an Icyhot to my mother’s back,
soothing her spasms as we drive
to go stuff letters in jaundiced envelopes,
and smack small flags on their corners
that say “USA Forever.” I drink
Dr. Pepper from a cold can and listen
to Steve Earle during this time stamping.
Four hours of envelopes
and red, white, and blue.
The way home is littered with bearded men
who carry cardboard signs that speak in Sharpie
of strip malls, and Jesus, and mercy.
One of them sucks on a briar pipe
that will fill his lungs with golf balls.
Glue cloys on my tongue, and I think
about how much I would rather write poems
than do this for the rest of my life.
While mom sleeps on the couch I continue
to lick the yellow paper.