Toy Soldier

They prescribed me a tractor

and a box full of hammers

and said find your true passion

in all that testosterone.

I broke myself instead.

When I eventually repaired

I was lost. Now I can only find

myself when I am lost. Today

I find myself bringing you home

a croissant and a poem.

They say every man is born

with a kingdom of bunny rabbits

inside of him. Every day he must

resist the impulse to kill one.

Whenever I am sad I wrap myself

in a tight blanket of fists.

When I was 14, two boys peed

on me in the locker room showers

like dogs marking territory.

A girl opened the door for me

this morning. A homeless man

offered me a hug.

At the park I saw a child

decapitate a toy soldier.

I recognized myself in his smile.

Our ancestors brought

home sabre tooth tigers.

I ate your croissant. All I have

to show you are bits of poem

stuck between my teeth.

Porcupines

The boy staring at me

in the checkout line

with snot and ice cream

running down his face

may one day become

president.

A father cradles his baby girl

like a football

while his attention

is pacified by football.

Every child matters

is made of matter.

Algorithms attribute

the rise of junk males

to the persecution

of the junk male.

A man in uniform sets fire

to a house

he’s sent to rescue

like a man in uniform

murders another man

he swore to serve and protect.

A sports headline

you don’t have to worry about:

“Two Fighters

Enter an Octagon

and Open Up

About their Feelings."

In other news,

porcupines

can hug

other porcupines.

Trephination

My head is sad again today. I took it

for a walk outside, but the rain

wouldn’t stop laughing. I confuse Prozac

for sunlight. You never stopped

collecting lightbulbs. Never found

a viable solution to the mind-body problem.

I found oxygen in the trenches

of a page. Poetry as airway management.

Poetry as life support. Staring skyward

from this pillory, I want to believe in

these wings made of pills. Doctors used to drill

holes in our skulls to save us from storms.

Father, imagine it was that easy

to exorcise depression through an eyelet.

John Doe
Poet, Independent Writer
IN CONVERSATION WITH
Aidan Chafe