It’s a delicate process, really.
You say I’m at my best
When I am loved—
Vulnerable,
Steadfast,
Like flowers.
And soldiers.

Peyote soliloquies
Become me, you mutter.

And I emulate afternoon FM jazz
Grasping at hints of static,
Imperfect,
Kinky,
Transcendental humming,
While you count
Splotches of grease
On the Dear Abby page.

We are in Connecticut.
Our house is not paid for.
And my fingertips stay still;
Because pseudo Kerouac rants
Can’t pay bills.

And tomorrow you sit it in the nook
Clutching your pea coat
Contemplating cab rides,
I’ve surmised,
To the places you pined for
Then.
Pigtails, shortalls,
Dreams.

I lower my head down on the keys,
Refusing to let you see me,
Cry.

***

Daniel Romo

Daniel Romo

Daniel Romo teaches high school, and lives in Long Beach, CA. He has been published here and there, and is currently seeking admittance into a rather swell low residency MFA program. He strives to be witty and relevant in his poetry, and claims to use first person too much, an addiction to SportsCenter, and gray sky the utmost inspiration.