Sunday, Bloody Sunday.

“Speaking shit”

I knock over a fruit bowl,
slip onto the floor,
crawl to the chair
and flop down with a
sheet of paper in my hand.

I ask my family if they
want to hear a poem

They say no,

all your poems are stupid
and your acting like a drunk
asshole tonight.

I look down at the page
and there is a bundle of scribble

Like the lines you draw
when you are trying
to get a pen started.

Underneath it
there are a few words
that read

This is a beautiful poem for you guys,

Even if you can't understand it,
it still makes
perfect
sense.