POEM: the last rest area in Missouri (this trail of me)

I guess I’ve always been a delicate man

“Lemonworld,” The National
i tiptoe through your garden
but it is dark
so there will be carnage

i should have done this barefoot
and in the daylight
i realize stepping blindly

then i could feel and see
this trail of me
my silent destructions

(other people would just tapdance on your heart
or carelessly bloody your shins
ruthless and graceless)

in the morning you will find me surefooted
knees caked in mud
my head resting apologetically against your back door

—P.L. Thomas

NOTE: My original poetry will now be posted here, but please find my poetry-only blog here for older poems.