Patrick Dundon



Drunk in bed at three AM, unable
to imagine the wrongs I must
have committed during the day, each one
a slab of uncooked meat, I reach
for a glass of water that's out of my grasp
and fear I haven't lived enough
or that I've lived too much.

Today I bought a bag of cappuccino-
flavored potato chips just because they made me             
hate America a little bit more—such an American
thing to do. I looked at the metallic
bag as if it were a deflated mirror
and read "cappuccino seasoning" as if
cappuccino were a reducible element.

I want things to be exactly what they are.
It's been raining for days: the ground
deep under the ground has begun
to liquefy, leaving nowhere solid to stand,
so instead I lie here and close my eyes
like two garage doors, the owner
having locked his car, unable

to remember if he left his umbrella
in the trunk as the thunderstorm hits.



I brought those chips to a poetry reading where they were only eaten as a dare.