portion of the artwork for James Ardis's poem

(You’re home and you’ve been home)
James Ardis

You’re home and you’ve been home and you’re still wearing your jeans and there’s a
corner in your living room you can’t get out of without restarting everything. You can’t
pet your Labrador retriever so you don’t. In the restroom the mirror reflects nothing.
You can kick the tub all night, your feet won’t bleed.

And you’re comfortable on the couch even if you are still wearing your jeans. You’re
not concerned with the void in your living room corner, hope the jumping spiders
crawl in there, hope the jumping spiders die in there.

If you never leave home the nightclubs will never open, the exposition will mind itself,
the man with something of a sideburn who betrays you will stay loyal.

If you never leave, two bystanders will keep their lives and their compact cars, the
prostitutes will get a night off because they cannot manifest.

There’s a gun in your hand, your jeans are on, cash in its pockets for the whores and all
you can touch is the door.

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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 47 | Spring 2016