Bob Hicok

Looking at a bird.

Looking at the moon.

Looking at a bird looking at the moon.

Sharing a cigarette with the trees

outside my hotel room.

Waiting for Pegasus.

Standing in my socks.

Finding a yellow knife in my coat pocket

that doesn’t belong to me.

Stabbing a beer can.

Dropping the knife in the trash.

Wondering what kind of bird

sings for a man waiting for a horse

that flies. This bird.

Wishing I’d taken more acid when I was young.

Imagining myself in armor in the pool

reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Children a thousand years from irony

competitively splashing each other

for the prize of shouting, I Am The King.

Never be the king, I whisper from behind my face plate.

Everything is happening at the same time.

You are here and I’m in your bedroom

looking at your slippers. Why yellow? Why open-toe?

There are only surprises, including how little

I understand. My head is on fire

and I think it’s because I’m looking forward

to what’s on TV, when the truth is, fire

has to be somewhere, I have to be somewhere,

everywhere has to be somewhere, why not here?


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