Peeling off the Sheets
When summers in Omaha
can still slap on the heat
to start the day,
I peel off the sheets
and cannot help but think
of new skin and rebirth;
like a struggling poet
scratching at the world
for some symbol wrapped up
in a brand new metaphor,
with that desperate hope
to finally create
one poem
that will keep his name
on every student's lips.
On quiet nights
I think of the stranger
still hiding in my veins,
left on the tips
of all those needles,
and coursing
through the body
of the man
who tainted me.
I catch myself walking
through the streets
with closed eyes,
as if I am still waiting
for him to say something
say anything
from a muttered apology
to just his first name.
