Eulogy.


I have woken up with the sun
underneath me.
The walls of my room are
red brick.
In the beginning static
of summer air
ripe with storm,
I wait for a vision
in Philly.
Who will write my eulogy?
I have set down my hopes
in hopes that someone will
read me like Giovanni
or Bukowski
or their brother who wrote them a note
saying, “I know I’ve been an asshole,
and so have you. But I love you.”
I don’t know if the clock strikes
anything anymore.
Everything in my city is made
of mercury.
Even the fish with their silver bodies
wait for food to fall from
heaven.
I ride my bike around the city walls
waiting for an answer
or a phone call.
Years ago you said you’d live in a boat.
I showed up in the same place
every day for a year.
Nothing unfolds
in one piece.
These aren’t my stories to tell.
I set them down
as one who wanders
after many others who
wandered before.
The walls in my room
are crumbling.
The dust is so fine
it’s like clay.
I can’t give you the parts
that need telling.
Write that Amy
woke up
on the sun.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in Poetry, Summer, travel and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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