What I need is to escape into the material,
the way of cinderblocks and bones, but even

the lint in my belly bears a fragment of abstraction.
What I need is to ditch metaphor and disappear

into an actual coffee table starry with watermarks,
have Eloise or Raul stash me in the cosmic storage unit

to be feasted on by nothing, cloaked only in dust.
Hell yeah I want to jam up against it: 70s pleather sofa,

purple plastic pencilbox stuffed with Bic ballpoints,
a single denim vest.

Like a dad with a duffel he’s kept pact
so long the Tommy Bahama shirts are worn

to mothshit, pigment faded like guano or white
sandy beaches of perhaps Morocco,

I am almost ready to leave myself.

John Leo

John Leo

John Leo's writing has appeared in Verdad, Tinderbox, Breakwater Review, and the bathroom stalls of several Indianapolis dive bars. He is an activist and teacher with an MFA from Butler University.
John Leo

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