by Ricardo Sosa-Melo
Twenty-one
I turned twenty-one
not on my birthday
but on a very sad Monday.
He didn’t love me,
my friends were mad,
and my roommate’s cat
kept hissing at my door.
I was completely alone,
bored at my gravestone.
I texted Mike sorry
he asked what for,
but I was too high
to remember why,
so I said it was for
all the good things
I fail to see.
Mike on the Mic
Unlike the other frontmen,
Mike holds his mic high,
reverb on, ‘mic check,
1, 2, 3,’ and when he speaks
it’s electric like a Father’s preach
like Suicide’s rattling bass
you feel it in your bones
like the thunder after lightning
strikes you hot! Never leaves!
Now you hear him play
even when the mic
is 1,033 miles away
****
Ricardo Sosa-Melo is a Florida-based filmmaker and writer. These poems appear in his latest collection, 6 7, released in March, which explores growing up while chronically online.