possessor confession

A Free Verse poem

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i got a Tennessee-shaped patch of dirt that mysteriously showed up
a wrong-number penpal who claims i’m covering for her boyfriend
a trading floor vocabulary, an itchy middle finger
each shared generously at ripe opportunities
got every record on vinyl the Trail of Dead ever put out
i got my teenage nunchucks still hanging from a nail on my bedroom wall

i got a hand that smells like vagina from two days ago
a surplus jacket i’ve slept in since deer season started
a bunion, a Spigelian hernia
neither of which i pay any mind
got the sparkliest fucking notebook i could find at CVS
i got stanzas so coarse scratched into it the imprints sink five pages deep

i got no one left to vouch for my whereabouts
a neighbor who brings pie twice a month for “handiwork”
a nephew with attitude, a raccoon problem
both of which make my life better in my opinion
got tools in my smoke shed the cops would likely try to confiscate
and i got visions of heaven that are carbon-copied, right hand to God