The repairman finally came, sucked the soul
out of my cable tv and left only
walnuts behind. I told him
I had already given my heart
to a pony-riding clown
and didn’t need anything from anyone
anymore, didn’t need to be made a part
of anyone else’s sideshow act.
His voice muffled by pillows
and panties, he told me
not all insects are dangerous,
and some even make our lives more
comfortable. However, he did not tell me
how to turn the television on
and ants still give me the willies.
This is the definition of want. You can only go so far in a
boat. Sooner or later, we all have to sleep. Most
people are not as smart as they look.
These are painful rainbows to handle. I keep everything
in my pockets, except my money
which I don’t.
Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches writing classes at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include the nonfiction books Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, and the poetry collections “Late-Night Reading for Hardworking Construction Men” (The Moon Publishing) and “The Smell of Snow” (ELJ Publications).