-for franklin k.r. cline
the snow shut the woods up for once
& now everything is wet
my boots & socks
my cute little gloves
all afternoon the birds
tap their beaks at the window
because they can see me munching david’s low sodium sunflower seeds
& checking my blood pressure
off & on & off beyond the pines
bent like drunks in the snow
the newly discovered dump
sits waiting for me & mom
to go sifting for something good
trash pickers
of this trashed land
hunting for anything that glints
when held to the sun
but now it’s Sunday
& I’m bummed
& franklin called & gassed me up
we say our woods our swampy fields
on Monacan land
a dozen miles from where Jefferson
dug up a bunch of graves
to plant grapes
& got called the father
of modern archeology
what do you say to shit like that
shaking the last of a hint of
lime
tostitos bag into your mouth
& drinking the worse tasting
ZERO-SUGAR LEMON-LIME
THIRST QUENCHER Gatorade
*naturally flavored
with other natural flavors*
which doesn’t mean anything
but when googled
means there is at least a little
bit of tree sap in this bad boy
& my own sap comes in
while looking through the hidden
album in my phone
& feeling like narcissus
staring into the koi pond
in an Austin Power’s wig
asking
do I make me horny, baby?
again & again until the fish
break the surface
with their hunger
mistaking my shadow
for one who’s come
to feed them
Mikey Swanberg is the author of On Earth As It Is (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, 2021), Good Grief (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, 2019), Zen and the Art of Bicycle Delivery (Rabbit Catastrophe Press). He holds an MFA from the University of Wisconsin - Madison & lives in Chicago.