A Stranger

There’s a stranger staring at me from outside the window,

where the whack-clack-a-lacking from next door won’t stop pounding,

as the dog continues to itch himself into a frenzy that will not cease.


I make up a song to drown out the doves that keep getting killed by the crows,

fading out into an oblivion of some fucking mystery that should have ended it all.


We used to be in love and then you started to change,

the pace of it so glacial that I did not realize you were unrecognizable until you were already gone.


The topography of this place across the states is alabaster,


yet the dirtiest misery I’ve ever seen, this machine that churns like scraggly worms getting placed into a blender, repeatedly, one by one.


Dirt. This is dirt.

No, mud. Wetter than the driest kind.

Rain has become a permanent part of the sky.

I forget the sun.


Is this supposed to feel good?

Am I required to hit the lowest rung as I break all of my bones,

reversed into some quagmire that was planned from the very beginning?


The opposite of statements solidified, becoming fragile and covered in charcoal,

I stare into the mirror and realize that I don’t know who is looking back.


The stranger I do not recognize used to be me.

Alexander Rigby