Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021

Switch Hitter

There’s a little bird
washing herself in the rainwater
in the gutter.
She chirps a bit and flashes her wings,
that there’s something wrong with me

My sister was such a dreamer.
She had an imaginary friend
named Jenna and it was strange because
we didn’t know anyone named Jenna.
I was a Beatles freak
who had to keep the fluid of our house
in order. I read John Calvin.

We’re stuck in Carbondale now
where my sister teaches at the university
and I write poems in a trance. I feel
pretty guilty about it.

Today on my walk I passed
a woman ensconced in a thick bower
asking all kinds of questions and
being answered either
by the devil or someone on a smart
phone. They castigated me for being on SSI.

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