Bring Prudence


Filtering by Tag: poem

Max Phillips

When Max Phillips came over,
he wore his keds all around the house.
Mom asked if we wanted milk,
and we said sure and thank you
and do you like your classes.

I showed him the birdhouse
and the scar above my knee.
Then we watched The Sound of Music,
and he never came back.

Sometimes I see a black coat floating,
other times I’m alone.

The Unfortunate Story of Bryce the Otter

When you’re an otter, nothing is alright.
You wonder why you have to sleep without Benadryl.
It’s hard to breathe at night.

Your friends say, read some. Make it light,
or buy a mattress at Goodwill.

When you’re an otter, friends aren’t alright.

You know yourself. You won’t give up a fight.
These modern otters haven’t swum uphill.
It’s hard to breathe at night.

We’ll just walk in. We’ll wave our guns. Stop being so uptight!
They give us Benadryl or they get killed.

When you’re an otter, stealing is alright.

Who knew that CVS could run so tight?
Police showed up and things just went downhill.
It’s hard for me to breathe tonight.

Just ten more years ‘til I see the light.
Thank Otter God they feed us gruel still.
When you’re an otter, jail is alright.
And yet it’s hard to breathe at night.

Why I drink with my eyes closed

I almost calmed the crossfire. And again,
there’s two of me and neither is that hungry.
My coffees are like baby seas. But just
because they’re low, that doesn’t mean they’re deep.
And we are targets; we are swans, and trains,
we’re organs, drops, and reams, and paper boats.
Our buses run on chocolate in their veins;
they’re slowly getting slower. And again,
in August, when I build myself a home,
my windows will come out to a wall.


I know I don’t read
and I’m scared of Jupiter,
but I’ve got tricks:

I like all colors,
but my favorite is cake.
I wait in lines.
I dry butterflies.

I know you can love me.

I jog all around your house,
I tie flowers
to my shoes.

And also trains

You pull up like a novice,
meet me at the door,
lead me up my stairs,

I take off your jeans.

You don’t tell me
that you made me,
I don’t swing a pillow,
the wreath doesn’t fall, a dog doesn’t bark.

We go camping down to the lake,
you teach me how to swim.
I am clumsy and kissed.


Hands on the handle, hands on the backseat.
Necks floating. Alright.
The ride is salty and I’m boring.

Boots are the first to leave. Then earrings.
Then two bills fly
back inside.

Clark and 18th. And run it up.

And then there are clavicles,
tea, and the Planetarium,
but already in my head.