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Poetry By
  Tom Gunn

Published on: 10/23/2013
Tom Gunn Breaks the News to His Dying Father That He Is Not A Homosexual

Chapter I
Every night he sings "Feed the Birds" from the film Mary Poppins to convince his infant son that the day is over and that it is safe to go to sleep.
F. Scott Fitzgerald died of a heart attack at the age of forty-four while trying to make it as a screenwriter: Gatsby, forgotten.
God listens to the prayers of his children through a one-way intercom taking careful notes, but cannot respond.

A small bag of Cheetos has 21 grams of fat.
He's only ever been friends with people who hate everything about him.
God has a body of flesh and bones as tangible as man's.

Chapter II
His first words were a lost haiku by Ernest Hemingway. In a fit of rowdy play as a child, he tripped a girl who broke her leg. She never knew who it was because he never took responsibility.
He enjoys twisting and pulling out the hairs of his head.

Chapter III
He works and plays alone, standing at a second-hand Ikea desk made of metal and particle board mounted on four cinder blocks.
Those who suffer from non-verbal learning disability often struggle to focus when confronted with numbers or leaves of paper or are asked to complete a task under a ticking clock.
Riding the bus on the first leg of his daily commute, he writes a novel by hand using a Cross ballpoint pen he's owned for five years—losing it, finding it—one page per trip . . .

Published on: 10/18/2013

Wait and listen to that song
Sunscreen, scrunchie, fanny pack

Does it drive them all insane?
Iron, mushroom, storybook

Take the fastest spinning cup
Play-dough, crayons, apple sauce

Bring your playmate. Tag, you're it
Purple maelstrom, pizza dough

Spin the sun and time away
Plastic straw, captivity

Ninety seconds: laughter, puke
Manners, madness, misery

Night falls under sleeping tree
Paper lantern, lightning bug

Hand-in-hand, stumble home
Twilight, popcorn, cinnamon

You've been drunk in drunken tea
Swing the gate, hurry on!

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