How I Feel

like the dinner the dog ate,
and then threw up;
like a rusty muffler dragging;
like a dag of salt-grey snow hardened behind a front tire;
like a blackened banana in  a backpack
under a water bottle;
like bread toasted too long
and buttered anyway;
like an old grease stain on a freshly laundered shirt;
like the sound cats make
fighting;
like ice cream left on the counter overnight;
like a stove-top espresso maker with used grounds in it
that no one can unscrew;
like a dirty cast with unravelling edges;
like a hat lost in an alley
still wet from rain two days ago;
like I need to sleep,
perhaps for a year.