Just before the plague the library agreed to circulate board games donated to the library, this one arrived recently, I found it in the department storage closet, read the description, the fuck is wrong with people
THE PROBLEM OF ANXIETY
Fifty years have passed
since I started living in those dark towns
I was telling you about.
Well, not much has changed. I still can't figure out
how to get from the post office to the swings in the park.
Apple trees blossom in the cold, not from conviction,
and my hair is the color of dandelion fluff.
Suppose this poem were about you - would you
put in the things I've carefully left out:
descriptions of pain, and sex, and how shiftily
people behave toward each other? Naw, that's
all in some book it seems. For you
I've saved the descriptions of chicken sandwiches
and the glass eye that stares at me in amazement
from the bronze mantel, and will never be appeased.