My little town mocks me:
You’re a regular Roman
numeral, boy.
A regular Roman Polanski.
You Blue Monday types
really crack me up.
I used to like being fooled,
being screwed with,
being banished from a lover’s bed
just to end
up with a better view of her body.
But something here isn’t right.
My astrologer sees only green
goo obscuring the night
sky’s shambling planets.
Something tells me
that if I leave town tonight,
I may never return.
About the Author
Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His poems have appeared in Conduit, Poetry Northwest, and Another Chicago Magazine.
