Apples and Days and Doctors and Ways

Teach the boy
of carpentry
and firearms
and hangovers.
Remove the straggling
bobby pins
that only you
don't notice.
Hang your missing switchblade
which you swore
a friend had stolen
but was only hidden so well
that its wielder was deceived.

That sinking feeling in your gut
defined as disappointment
should be embraced
as evidence:
at worst you're still alive.
Collect front teeth of players
who left far too much unwagered
and excuse the doubting Thomas
who would kill to have your eyes.

Something rots in Denmark
and you smell it over oceans
or maybe that's the gas pains
of a fresh relationship.
You knock down walls when sober
like your father never taught you
but have to get your shine box
when the bottle frees your id.

Allow a man who's long been dead
his shotgun in his hands
to remind you of a cosmic fact:
The sun, it also rises.

Sleep until you can't sleep
and your back hurts
and you're tired.
Mayhaps there was a mix-up.
This was not to be your life.