Alone

 

Walked into the apartment, alone.
Turned on the evening news.
                   The tiger shark circles for the kill
                   and I am naked, covered with blood.

Rummaged through the fridge, alone.
Washed some clothes.
                   The grizzly charges from the bank
                   and my hip waders are stuck in mud.

Cleaned the morning’s dishes, alone.
Watered the house plants.
                   The rattlesnake nailed my neck
                   the venom into the carotid artery.

Poured a drink, alone.
Started cooking something.
                   I choked to death on a brussel sprout
                   and pissed my pants in a restaurant.

It wasn’t important, alone.
Sat on the couch with my drink.
                   Lightning hit me after my hole-in-one
                   the first and last one of my life.

Watched news and other stuff, alone.
Dished up dinner.
                   After the car flipped, I burned to death
                   and I wasn’t even injured.

Sat on the couch and ate, alone.
Checked some emails and stuff.
                   Flesh-eating bacteria munched away at me
                   first my legs, then my arms, then my mouth.

Put clothes in the dryer, alone.
Washed the soiled dish.
                   A religious zealot cut off my head
                   with a dull machete on YouTube

Poured another drink, alone.
Watched some more stuff, alone.
                   I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer
                   given a month to live and died early.

Got up from the couch, alone.
Walked to the bathroom, alone.
                   Some nut stabbed me to death
                   over his belief that I was Jesus.

Brushed my teeth, alone.
Lay down in bed, alone.
                   I drowned on a teaspoon of water
                   and it had no flavoring or booze in it.

Hugged a pillow, alone.
Fell asleep, alone.
                   My wife suddenly left me
                   after learning of my mental disability.

Dreamed, alone.
Woke up, alone.

 

 

Brad G. Garber lives, writes, hunts for mushrooms and snakes, and runs around naked in the Great Northwest.  He fills his home with art, music, photography, plants, rocks, bones, books, good cookin’ and love.  He has published poetry in Three and a Half Point 9, Pine + Basil Arts Journal, Red Booth Review, Front Range Review, Dirty Chai,Coe Review, Black Fox Literary Magazine, theNewerYork, Ray’s Road Review, The Round Up, Meat for Tea, Gambling the Aisle and other quality publications. 2013 Pushcart Prize nominee.