Hanks Poem by Morgan Sweet

Your kind are all the same.
You cry on the cute things;
the cute mortgage, the cute tumbler in dungarees,
the friends who know exactly when to leave
and when to pay a well-received surprise visit.


A great deal of thought goes into my not being discouraged
by the repetition of small talk,
but I tend to remain discouraged.


Admiring the fabric of pleasantry you throw shapes across,
aware my horizon is a quilted, checkered dog blanket
that hair will attach itself to,
leaving a damp smell in the trunk of the car.


You fare with a seamless abandon,
skating over the boggy peat that labours my every step,
slowly compiling a legacy of one of those dreaded affable creatures.


The best I could contemplate
is leaving an imprint of my crumpled cheeks
outside that Chinese theatre,
within a squit of Tom Hanks.