Poem #11: The Bones Don't Care

there’s a charnel house

at the back of my property

I go there to sing to the bones

my melodies are ghastly, sorrowful

ruinous, but the bones don’t care

that’s my favorite thing

about the bones in my backyard

they never criticize, never grow tired

they only listen - like patience, rather than

blood, sustains them now

I envy them

why can I never just grasp patience?

I always end up snapping its neck

frustration boils, overflows within me

I prefer my violence to be meaningful

purposeful

as the bones, my sweet bones, know