Year of the Sea Monkey CLXXV
I see the pink flamingos.
I understand the threat.
I brush my teeth with helpless rage
that gets mistaken for apathy.
It’s a dick move
on someone’s part,
mine perhaps, but the world
gets replaced often
and incrementally.
I’ll miss my bus if I
don’t get moving.
There’s no time
to think about pink
flamingos or question
my dubious encounters.
I kiss my sweetheart’s cheek
before I’m elsewhere.
The radio is a strange mix
of old songs and new tariffs.
I see the green parrot.
I adjust for seasonality.
©Glen Armstrong all rights reserved
Glen Armstrong edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has two new chapbooks: Simpler Times and Staring Down Miracles. He spends part of his year teaching in a medium-security prison.