A distress
of ambulances
pass.
Snow like
diphtheria.
She called
love "lead
poisoning,"
left by
the backdoor.
Like cake
in a casket,
she made mud
of my hospitality.
No one has
a dime for
the telephone.
No one holds
the crossing
guard's hand.
No one wants
a knuckle sandwich,
even if they ask for one.
Adam O. Davis’ poetry has appeared in many journals, including Barrow Street, Boston Review, Denver Quarterly, the Paris Review, and ZYZZYVA. He currently lives in San Diego, where he teaches English at The Bishop’s School. He can be found online at www.adamodavis.com.
