Mounting Saint Mary.

A marble would've rolled across the room
faster than one of the pinewood derby cars
my father and I made during my cub scout days
had I dropped one on the floor of
that Midtown apartment.
The paint was too thick, made the doors stick
and filled in the grooves in the trim.
My father could've used some
for the outside of his peeling house
though the yard looks great as always.

All I wanted to come home to was my air conditioning
and some comfort food, but my roommate made goat
for dinner.
Fucking goat.
Canned soup isn't going to cut it
and the truck's too tired to go back out

so I'm going to bed hungry:
hungry, but well-loved.
It's more than I deserve.

I know I'm no knight, girls
but I seem to remember a few good ones
we spent together.
Carry them in your back pocket
right next to your knife.