From The Food Issue
When the silence of my
life rouses in darkness
delves into my daily routine
transitions into melancholy music
at times, not exact
then exuberant auto racing playing
at times, not exact
a new poem published or a kick in the ass—
kick smacks like tornado alley—
in the tomato can
left over paste
of my emotions
at times, not exact;
I realize the split of legacy,
of loyalty on its knees fractured
like a comma or sentence fragment,
naked like a broken egg
between friendship and hatred,
I stew like beef broth
simmering
sort of liked, sort of hated
not exact.
– Michael Lee Johnson
