Your Substance Of Choice

Your Substance Of Choice
hollers at ya.

It tells tales, says

stick with me
and live
forever.

As proof it shows you
your worst parent,
the long thought dead
mostly unmissed one,
waving at you
from inside a shoebox
you use to hold
photos,
odd linty pills, a penknife
with a bent blade
that won’t stay open.

See that?  Back
from the dead
like I said —

stick with me, kid,
and live forever.

What am I saying, you’re not
a kid anymore — what am I 
saying?

You’re grown, you got this —
hollaback
holla
back
y’all.
C’mon.

A penknife with a bent blade
that won’t stay open.  A brown crust
in the pivot point keeps it
from locking into place.
You won’t clean it.

Odd linty pills
for cold and flu, allergy,
sleep, pain.
You can’t even be certain they worked
when they were new and fresh.
You won’t throw them away.

Photos.  Not enough
and too many.  The tiny parent
waving among them,
a frond in funeral decor,
a skin tag gone horribly huge;
you won’t look.

Back from the dead
come the dead
you don’t wanna know

but c’mon,
you’re all grown up,
the dead can’t hurt ya,
you’re no kid anymore — 
holla back.

Shove the box into the closet
so its load can’t seep up
into your dreams.  Strap on
the getaway shoes. Get the hell
away from the house.

Your Substance Of Choice
can’t run. It can’t
fly.  All it can do
is lurk and lie
and beg you to notice it
lying there. That’s how it got
your worst parent.
That’s why
you never stop moving.