Confessional Poetry
More than our floor routine
that night at Justine’s apartment,
more than eating another lobster
from the Boston Seafood Company,
more than the sweet good life
we could have had
stealing paintings from the Louvre,
more than the melatonin
and the snow like a lake in the sun,
more than the sobering clarity
that we won’t spend every Friday
falling out of trees—
How much did we drink
that night at Foley’s
with the Celtic Tiger boys—
Dear Cinnette,
Life is spectacle.
The Post Office doesn’t care
that you’re a literary device.
My children are growing up.
I mow the lawn.
I shovel the walk.
My heart is a morphine drip.
My wife & I
haven’t fucked
in a year.
Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. Recent publications include Burning House Press, Horror Sleaze Trash, Be About It Press, The Gorko Gazette, Revolution John, & others. His latest collection, Bullet Pudding, is forthcoming from Roadside Press. He is a poetry editor at Blood+Honey and The Argyle Literary Magazine.
