Caleb  Bouchard

C a l e b  B o u c h a r d  

    [My father chops]

My father chops

firewood out in

the cold while I

sit inside

writing poetry

and one act

plays.

Like father,

like son;

like hell.

    Love poem

I’ve been making appointments

with the universe, for us to meet

in an open field, but they keep

getting cancelled. So now,

I’m putting on a concert.

I’m putting on a parade.

There needs to be a marching band playing

inside of a pink or yellow blimp with your name on it,

as well as some sort

of tasteful explosion.

I want you to see these

things, and hear what I

feel

sung

to you.

I love you.

I know it isn’t mutual. I just want a chance.

I want you to hear it perfectly.

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