By Colin Dodds
Crapping out two days’ liquor and fast food
in the perfunctory luxury of the resort hotel’s handicapped stall,
Spill-O admired the dark wood of the bathroom door
The grain undulated harmoniously
as if fashioned by an intelligence more patient and wise
than any he had guessed at
Those frozen waves transfixed and spoke to him:
Look at me. And then imagine what they’ll do
when they get their hands on you.
I was just a fucking tree.
On the golf course, Spill-O spilled energy drink on a cactus
And in the parking lot, the palm trees knew he was there
Hands like his uprooted them and hands like his
planted them along the edges of the parking lot
Hands like his built the sprinklers that water them,
and drive the lawnmowers that circle them
But Spill-O could feel their curiosity,
their impossibly patient desire for him
to do something he can’t yet fathom
Colin Dodds grew up in Massachusetts and completed his education in New York City. His poetry has appeared in more than a hundred and seventy publications and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He is also the author of several novels, including WINDFALL and The Last Bad Job, which the late Norman Mailer touted as showing “something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent that owes very little to other people.” And his screenplay, Refreshment, was named a semi-finalist in the 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. Colin lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife Samantha. You can find more of his work at thecolindodds.com
