This Isn't a Poem

because I don't write poetry. This is a bit of my day without punctuation and with awkward spacing. 

today

well this morning, more precisely

a man came to my door

and in my sleepiness

I thought if he asked if I was John

when I am clearly not John

unless I went to sleep at night

and woke up in the morning as an entirely

new person in a new body

(isn’t that all those transsexuals want?)

but really he wanted to know if it was John’s house

which it was

I was still me, still a girl.

I was certain the man could see my tits through my sleep shirt

so I folded my arms

what an awful defense

and the man told me that he was from the gas company

and needed to talk to John and not to me

so he left.

 

later that day I tried to cook an egg

but the stove wouldn’t make fire

it just made a noise like

clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick

so my mother hadn’t paid the gas bill

this has happened before and it always means something

its worse when she doesn’t pay the electric bill

we have to throw away everything in the refrigerator

so that we can start all over again

I decided that I was grateful 

one: that it is late spring so the sun can warm the house

like it did the indians' wigwams 

two: that I wasn’t the type to put her head in the oven

when things go wrong because

I would have been shit out of luck. 

I think things are going wrong

because

my mother left two pieces of toast in the toaster

I found them golden and cold

who the fuck forgets their toast

unless they are

well you know

remembering their wine

and every time, she cries and says

at least I’m giving you something to write about, right?

no, mother, you’re not.

this doesn’t even deserve these past 308 words.