Angst

angst-y poetry box

placed outside of the hall

or

in front of the gossiping door

or

underneath the kitchen sink.



and in the kitchen sink,

crust piles on plates,

and plates waitwaitwait,

because they’ve been soaking

for 10 years,

while i’ve been

looking at the world

through the hole in that tree --

the one that either dances in the backyard,

or sleeps in my old, creaking bed

full of nightmare-hued memories scattered

through the pale blue of the sheets.