More deaths of former friends last year than snowstorms,

heat rising through summer like an iron above my skinsuit.

Death came closer: my grandfather first, then my car. 

Bad year for keeping the engine running. Other things.

I helped my girlfriend move away, a different sort of death.

I played strange games at night with strangers. 

Still couldn’t find a job—who wants an employee

with JD & rap sheet, a history of addiction?

Should’ve gone to clown college; should’ve gone to war.

Went to a dress-like-a-pirate party, flea markets,

thrift shops, the cinema, a tour of Blenko glass

where I stared at fire & wanted to cup it in my palms.

I found new obsessions: taking surveys for a buck-&-

a-half an hour, watching artsy films from the Criterion

Collection until I became a collector, too. This year

has felt off-kilter. I’ve lost my angle of approach.

Maybe next year will be better. But 52? What the hell

kind of number is that? Who achieves greatness then?

I asked Google, & it gave me a name: Ray Croc, 

founder of the McDonald’s chain. Good for you,

Ray. I enjoy your flimsy burgers, but I didn’t 

plan to start a franchise this year. What would I sell?

Get your poetry here. Goes great with self-

loathing & a side of prose. If there were a market,

I’d be a billionaire & have my name in headlines 

as I’ve always wanted, even strung out at 34

when I robbed that drugstore, waving my stupid knife

as if conducting a gurgling, sloppy symphony of blood.

----------------------------------------

Ace Boggess is author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Harvard Review, and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries to stay out of trouble. His seventh collection, Tell Us How to Live, is forthcoming in 2024 from Fernwood Press.