CRM

our customer relations management software tells me
it's 79 in Phoenix. night, the moon
illustrated as a toothless smile,
the way mine might look in the morning
when my dentures are soaking
in lake-water claustrophobic,
the dusty shelf of our first home—
my first gift of getting clean
was having my teeth extracted,
pulled from me like rotting secrets.

I am this customer, pretending
in the desolate sands of Arizona, crying
like a coyote to a private moon. testing
things like idempotency, a word
I learn through condescension
from people I've never met
whose job titles even are an ungloved fist,
who cut their teeth, natural
in egg-shell condos, waiting
for cable repairmen and alumni mail.

my therapist tells me to remain
curious. my sponsor tells me to be
compassionate. these directives
find me behind
barbed-wire thoughts—when
the bloodhound exhausts
his legs, trailing.

Luke Kuzmish is a writer from Erie, Pennsylvania. My Name Does Not Belong to Me, his fifth collection of poetry, was published by Weasel Press in 2020. You can find out more about the poet at http://lukekuzmish.com/.