I Got a Million and One
James Miller


 
I got a million and one places to go,
           don’t need this, don’t need this class--
                         going for process tech, maybe
                                    instrumentation,
 
leaving campus, 8:50 PM, most Tuesdays
            train’s pumping by, that waiting
                        is its own weight, you think
                                    I couldn’t make it
 
in California, back home blocks from 
            the donut factory where you were born,
                        fucked it up in Missouri City,
                                    wife’s having her first
 
at San Jacinto, brother’s out of prison, propped
            on the porch, husband’s froth like
                        Barq’s and bile, first hour
                                    into cookout crawdads,
 
by the second hour peeking divorce court
            on your phone, Stovall vs Davis Junious
                        vs Stepney, this being the third
                                    round in school, pray
 
serious as shrapnel most mornings, and amen
            here you are slathing apricot preserves
                        on genu-wine artisan sourdough,
                                    pale blue chopping board
 
in the sink with damp crumbs and butter, guh-lorious
            the way squirrels flop and drop, dread
                        in their apt. parking plots, four more
                                    credits and you’re on
 
the run, but graduation’s autotune classic rock radio,
             brain damage, any colour you like,
                        elo was not the house you grew
                                     up in but the stringy one
 
across the street, grey brick and treeless lawn, once
             you shivered over the back fence
                          for a pocked nerf and the pitbull
                                       chewed your buttcheek raw,
 
a couple days no sitting on your ass, but worse for the dog
              (just now occurs to you for the first time), 
                            rabies shot and by August you’re ready
                                          to forgive, but by then the house
 
is empty, they left in a hurry, takeout Whataburger
               piled on the dining table, you know that gut feeling,
                            mountains of fries to follow and unclaimed pickles,
                                        and noon roaches scatter when you rap,
 
                                                         once, on the porch glass.
 










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About the Author:  James Miller is a native of Houston, though he has spent time in the American Midwest, Europe, China, South America and India. He has published poetry in Riversedge, the Houston Poetry Fest 2016, Sweet Tree Review, Lullwater Review, Burnt Pine, Boston Accent, Plainsongs, Cold Mountain Review, The Tishman Review, The Maine Review, Bird’s Thumb, Straight Forward Poetry, Gyroscope, 2River, After the Pause, Main Street Rag, Lunch Ticket and Across the Margin.

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