No Such Thing as a Perfect Thought

I’ve waited my life/to have a perfect thought/where no blood spills/from family or passers by to stain my conscience/where no curse abides in dark, cobwebbed corners/waiting to spin its constricting yarn around my gray matter/where no love that’s been lost/drapes the fabric or its loose fitting sheet/ before my impaired vision/ I wait for thougths that should be encased in concrete from the ankles down/to float up to the tide pools in the forefront/where the preacher, the pallbearer, and the coffin/expressionless and familiar wait quietly, patiently/for me.