To (Cannibal) Bob – Coleman Bomar

September 22, 2022

The pink vase we didn’t give to goodwill,
your faux fur coat/vest,
our three legged chair we fucked on
and fell down laughing even
became smelly corpses,
killed with something like a noose or
flaming zero that was also my idiot temper.
Now, this house smells mildewy.
We were the greatest
and worst people we ever met
we agreed once.
I ate small children and you loved old ladies,
especially if one smelled of ashes,
her meat hinting pre-funeral or less hair.
(You’d be surprised which parts
of this are metaphorical).
Now, I can’t say much with rhythm.
Now, it’s just repetition.
Now, I don’t know who to hold now that
you’re gone except Jesus,
this cat around my leg, vibrating
like a package from anonymous.
Call me one more time.
I’ve learned to cook, wash dishes and do laundry for myself.
Call me please so we can raid another nursing home, reliving 2018.