Not Really A Poem

I left New York to find things lost in the Playboy mansion. Tan skin, swimming pools, fairytale love, better quality of life, bla, bla. Three months pass and you can’t tell by the fairness of my skin that I’m from Texas or that there's a swimming pool within walking distance from just about anywhere for that matter. Thankfully I’m not driving right now-upon returning to Texas my doctor found a tumor the size of an armadillo making itself welcome in my body. Three days post-op complications occur and a C.A.T. scan is ordered. Just a word of advice, if ever anyone asks if you want a C.A.T. scan that involves the words ‘rectal contrast’ you tell them kindly no thank you. At 8:32 I wake up and watch the tape over the six inch incision curl at the edges. In the shower the sticky adhesive begins to ball up and turn black. The scar is Elephants on Parade pink and Miss Vanity fears her bikini body will never be the same. To recover my mom has taken me to her ranch outside of Brenham, where if this were a real poem, I would tell you of the rolling hills, palatial homes and Brindle steers that paint the landscape. The country is efficient at forgetting the rest of the country and every evening at 6:18 the wind plays across ninety acres picking up grainy dust hitchhikers-it reminds me of the garbage swirls on Roebling St. in Brooklyn where I used to live.  I miss that garbage.