The Prison I Made Myself

I’ve got those deep suburb blues. Like I’m never going to get out. Like I’m staring at the sidewalk watching the sun dig holes in the pavement and bring weeds up with its fingers and nails. Like old ladies walking. Like stray cats and dead deer. Like fruit flies all over your kitchen sink. Decks that stare at other decks. Chain-link fences that cut into your hands. My mind is full of row-houses and each one looks like the one I grew up in.