I remember draping
bath towels
over the curtain rods.
I didn't have
faith
the venetian blinds
were enough to
stop nosy people
from trying
to look into
my sick
sick world.
What would they see?
What was I ashamed of?
What, exactly, was I trying to
hide?
I remember
hearing
flashes of light
trying to sneak
through the cracks
and thinking
SWAT
decided finally
to just
ring the doorbell.
No one was ever there.
No one was ever coming.
No one of importance,
even cared.
That's just what a
white boy
like me
gets
for thinking he's
Tony Montana -
a green-card
to the world
in someone elses
pretentious universe,
the neighbors
conspiring
to shoot him in
the head
with lawn jarts by
a bonfire
while drinking
pitchers of
country lemonade,
and the only
hope of surrendering
left
means waving
a wash cloth
which used to be white
but is now
shit brown
from trying to
wipe
the true color
of his own skin off.
If I can
do that
successfully
the only other
echo
of my pretend country's
anthem
anyone will hear
in this bitch-ass
neighborhood,
is the sound
of toilet water
descending
when my
imaginary boys
are flushing -
the rest of my shit.
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