Tonight's Poet Corner: Mope O'Clock
Mope O'Clock
by Belinda Roddie
Every time of day, I feel like
crashing in the corner of my
lip-drooping, eye-sagging pity
party where there's no piñata,
just some bottles of cold rum and
even colder Kahlua. Don't try to
lift me from this sour mood, as
unhealthy as candy, because my
heart is puckering around the edges,
and I feel a figurative baseball bat
strike me against the chest over and over
and try to tear my intestines apart
so children can feast on the last crumbs
of my sugary past success.
by Belinda Roddie
Every time of day, I feel like
crashing in the corner of my
lip-drooping, eye-sagging pity
party where there's no piñata,
just some bottles of cold rum and
even colder Kahlua. Don't try to
lift me from this sour mood, as
unhealthy as candy, because my
heart is puckering around the edges,
and I feel a figurative baseball bat
strike me against the chest over and over
and try to tear my intestines apart
so children can feast on the last crumbs
of my sugary past success.
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