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
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.


About amyleighcutler

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

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