Caroline Davidson

I Can’t Get No.

Buckets, I shed buckets of

wet. Listen to new felon

charm, the new man words,

hunt for a face to hide in this

limestone and bug

capital city. Gulp and

consider!  Why here, him,

this capitalist non-think.

I have such thick plans for bursting—

luckily, a workload

allows for  

easier constriction.

Sell it!

Sorry, can’t talk

anything when that

glass sits

unoccupied—

when a quoted

Midwest city

shifts on its drum.

You lie

on a small stomach;

that work canoe ride did it.

I should consider the wax smell, instead

I mention Doctor Beak,

 you know, of Rome,

you know? The Plague Doctor?  You

don’t, but I say, “cloves to

defend against miasma,” anyway.

Oh, morning. The want

: to attract cynics who lift me.

Still, unable to

afford a little

guitar, one hotel

hour,

monotypes of girls

who rise from grand

black canals.

Caroline Davidson's poems have appeared in Coconut, Tinge, Sixth Finch, Gulf Stream, Robot Melon, and elsewhere. She is from Ohio, received an MFA from the University of Colorado-Boulder, and currently sings, writes, and promotes musicians in one of those places.