A Game I Play Poem by R. H. McBride

The church isn't allowed to sell pumpkins,
Those rebel-rousers with their shaved teeth
And copy-copy-copy-cat dogs,
I can tell the difference.
It's a game I play,
I've sucked enough of my own bloody knuckles
In front of the bar's spot-the-difference-won't-someone-talk-to-me game,
A pile of straws lined up on top the juke box,
Like steel beams welded up around me
I keep them there to know how many I've had
I'd count, but I don't want to know how many
And that would prove my father abandoned me, I win
Now I steal free blighted pumpkins,
Now I wonder if my ex-wife's son is mine,
Now I carve into ceiling fans with my caffeine hair jitter,
And I remember the agony of now, I win again.
Whereas then I would tell myself to forget
My stomach is rounder now and I don't want to talk about it
My shrink runs from me
I want to cover his naked body with post-its and staple him to the ceiling
It's been two years today since my last drink
The mall used to be open, that one supermarket had a different name
The woman I pay assures me great success
My mom is alive now
I spot the difference
Oh, backwards now the moon spins