From Under The Rented Umbrella, Nine Dollars Per Hour 

Joseph Goosey

It is ninety seven degrees here and I cannot feed the homeless.

A rail of a coworker says to me "Your legs
are pale. You need to go out
and get some sun
on your legs"

I enjoy shaking sun off like skin- leaving it for the bushes
and the squirrels to cloak
and consume-
meaning I'm hardly "into it."

Thirteen years ago my father knocked the peanut butter
ice-cream from my hand, tossed me
into a one-ton Toyota and sent my action figures,
business class, to Florida.

I never proposed a formal request for the sun.

She could flog herself into assassination
and I would not attend
the memorial.