Tom Beckett



Maybe

I try

to dream

a sex

dream but

nothing comes

of it.

                Somehow

the only

dreams which

access me

are nightmares.

This lack

of alignment

between waking

hopes and

sleepy realizations

is what

I am . . .

trying to

talk about.

Maybe I’m

an unreliable

narrator . . . but

maybe that’s

not true.

Maybe it’s

cold outside.




The Game

We take turns
Being Watson.

Clues begin
To materialize.

Metonomy
Is suspect.

Yet the Game
Is not afoot,

Nor the body
In question.





We take turns
Asking one

Another: What’s
The Question?





We take turns
Tracing crime scenes,

Inventing rhyme schemes
And smoking pot.





We take
Turns pre-

Tending to
Be corpses.





We take
Turns trying

To parse
The inaudible,

The inedible,
Unobtainable evidence.





We take
Turns saying

“I didn’t
Do it.”




Tom Beckett lives and writes in Kent, Ohio.
 
 
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