by George Bishop
When the day’s finished
coming apart, I kick what’s empty
all the way to bed, or stand
and stare through the eyes of a penny
in plain view of the penniless
in me. Sleep and sleeplessness—
they’ve set aside their differences,
forged a peace bled of secrets.
Such things can no longer survive
in short lives and solitudes. So,
tell me what is was you wanted
to share when you knew nothing
was sacred to me, when I was drunk
on differences. What to do with
the confessions of one day
except to believe them until
it’s time not to believe them.
It’s time not to believe them—
my ghosts are listening, they know
you’ll say it some other way.
It’s the only way to keep it
a secret, from coming apart.
George Bishop’s work has appeared in The Commonline Journal and New Plains. Forthcoming work will be featured in FLARE. Bishop won the 2013 Peter Meinke Prize at YellowJacket Press for his sixth chapbook “Following Myself Home.” He attended Rutgers University and now resides in Saint Cloud, Florida.