go to bed.the door is locked/my will - b.j. jones

go to bed. the door is locked

the front door
it’s locked
it’s locked
I tell myself
myself I tell
myself I tell
next the gas stove
sniff it up close
no gas smell
sniff it again
real close
no smell no
back to bed
is the door locked?
?
up again
and I am up
it’s locked


my will

and when I die
I don’t care what you do
sell the house
find someone else
give the clothes away
box up the pictures
bury me or burn me
all I ask
have everyone
at the funeral
sing We
Three Kings
do this one thing
and I promise to
not haunt you or
the children I
hope it’s in
September

B.J. Jones writes about rogue pharmacists, phantom limbed windmills, quidnuncs, Luciferian calories, amorous bowling shoes, Funkhousers, martyred coupons, Nietzschian wire hangers, invisible tomatoes, and pen clicking adversaries while living in Dubuque, IA with his wife. Some of it even gets published.