New Poem Thingy
There was nothing to do except drink vodka in graveyards with competitive jerks.
Committing a misdemeanor can really build character sometimes—
The agoraphobics were under house arrest, which was fine by them.
We searched the parking garage of a very small Baptist college,
And we found many very small Baptists.
Nobody could tell which came first, the foreground or the background,
Or those snow shovels in back of the background or
Those dumpsters at the edge of the foreground.
The Canadian geese in the quadrangle had impulse control disorder—
Everybody needed more critical distance from the decorative light bulb factory.
We couldn’t find our car, and then we found our car,
And then we were sentimental for the days when we couldn’t find our car.
We went for a drive, and we drove past houses we couldn’t afford,
And then we drove some more, and we drove past houses we could afford.
Matt Cook is the author of three books of poetry (In the Small of My Backyard, Eavesdrop Soup, and The Unreasonable Slug.) His new collection, Proving Nothing to Anyone, is forthcoming in 2013 from Publishing Genius Press. His work has been anthologized in Aloud: Voices from the Nuyorican Poet’s Café, The United States of Poetry, and in Garrison Keillor’s Good Poems, American Places. He lives in Memphis, TN.