Cabbage Patch Dolly

Cabbage Patch Dolly

A Poem by Foxemerald

Cabbage Patch Dolly 

One beer too many.

Broken harbor splashed

In, gallons of rain and the liquid vices

Which people harass.

Thanking the days when you didn’t have to take the Advil

Then thanking the days when taking the pills used to help.

Finish the coffee and then

Start downing the H2O. Daytime summons.

Apple rolls out of the basket under the worker’s bin . . . wonder if I should

Try to alert them?

Girls with their tongues poking out . . . making out on the train. Is that a kiss? She’d swallow her hole, I mean, whole,

If they were out on a limb. Just kidding in public.

I open my sketch book. A long, empty graph.

The irritating solicitor, a warm cup of coffee,

held strong within my

Grip. My thoughts digress.

Started at NYU . . .

Never finished the job. It was a piece of work.

Everybody f***s

Up though.

Chill, you will make it through the

Night if only you could,

Forget about the rain on the window.

I love it when the train is prolonged.

People looking at their watches, tapping their feet,

It distracts them from being themselves for too


Bet that most of them are going nowhere at all, but I

Laugh when they forfeit their face.

Always so full of drama.

A man’s watery, Chinese eyes

Stare deep into my own black, stony gaze

Sniveling little Indian man on the

Third row down.

Obnoxious laughter ripping out from the Other end of the metro-circus.

Loss of interest

Hands that retract from the space, back to that

Warm, friendly cup I,

Drink long, sucking it deep.

Feeling alone, even when you have company at hand

Thinking about last night’s f**k

Just another one among a group of lost

Souls at a parade, in NYC.

On my third cup coffee . . .

Into the trap and into the

Soft, protective lining of a sloppy excuse.

Sitting outside, smoking up a chimney, thinking about how we

Must become luckless eventually, my thoughts locked away in a nice,

Long stack.

Changeless eyes, blissfully unaware, perfectly


Your feelings are second to nothing

And second to every single premise.

Keeping company with my beer and cigars

Putting on socks at the change of the hour, that

Sag from the night before.

Where did I put the kitchen knife again? can’t recall if I cut

The bones away from the

Rib-Eye steak from last night.

Flicking roaches off of my bedroom floor

Don’t call me now, please

I will cry when my mouth presses into the phone I may actually


Listening to Aerosmith’s Angel, a broken mess upon the rugs in a heap of

My nude shame.

Tired of wishing for love and god-made

Fat, baby angels to come and

Take me to that long spoken of, pearly gate.

Am I brave, to constantly battle some depression?

People seem to think, but then

What is bravery . . . merely a life that continues to reach

That hasn’t been squashed yet.

Giving my best music performance that can be

Enjoyed in the books. To a few smoking, simple passerby, walking the street under my feet. My perfect debut . . . And ‘these’ are to sit inside the Shakespearean round-table. Ironic, at best.

I’d rather be diseased, two feet tall or a broken

cabbage patch dolly, but if my heart could be made

Alive again.

Bird poop staring at me from the back of this woman’s

sweater. Again I chose my seat wrongly.

Church . . . would it help me? Maybe a few

Porn vids, Some of them are nice. Some you wish you hadn’t

Found upon impulse.

Sometimes I wish I could be a,

Broken cabbage patch doll, left on a Strange child’s pillow, until my

Owner decided what to do for my trouble

Watching the TV.

© 2020 Foxemerald

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Added on February 19, 2020
Last Updated on February 19, 2020
Tags: poetry




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