To Poets Who Overuse the Word "Thick": You can keep your worn out words

And Keep your thick crusts of bread, your thick hair
the thick rain pinging your thick tin roof. Keep
Your cliché garden pansies.
Steaming coffee. Cigarette flickin’ attitude.
I don’t want your birds or beaches,
your broken hearts, like violin strings,
like, like, like another tired metaphor, or dusk—
Sunset’s beauty is over, friend, so are your rain clouds
with their heavy hearts, your strangling pinks and peaches.

Give me the jagged edged crusts from the serrated knife,
I want the rain that flattens your hair to your throat I want
a jellied fish too long on shore, sand that grates the thermos lid.
Fingers search through soil, I want your shovel-hits-granite crack—
I want the sound of picked strings vibrating wood
that someone once steamed
into the shape of a woman.
Give me your fingers on that hip.
Give me memory, real memory, not a sunset, but the sound of crickets
as the mighty sun sinks behind your tired back.