Roy White

Thirteen

You’d think yellow and orange
would be cheerful.

It’s nothing but dreary,
the worn carpet I pace,

the woodwork buried
in thick layers

we’ll strip off with toxic gel
that burns whatever it can,

eating paint and skin
with equal hunger.

The guys are out, busy
with jobs or girls.

I’ve eaten the Jell-O pudding
Pato’s mother sent him, now

there’s powdered milk and stale rolls
and oatmeal from the food shelf,

which would be OK except
for the silence.

In the corner is a shotgun,
but I’ll never have

the nerve to turn it around
and pull the backwards trigger.

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Roy White is a blind person who lives in Saint Paul, Minnesota. His work has appeared in Poetry, BOAAT Journal, Kenyon Review, Copper Nickel and elsewhere. He can be found on Twitter at @surrealroy.