Looking for Good Poems in Poetry Magazines

Sometimes the only poems you can find are cobwebs,
the ones with dead bugs
hanging, but no spider left to bind them, drink them up.
They come off in your hair with a sticky rip.

There’s a phone ringing in a toybox. It’s buried.
We don’t have caller ID.
Imagine,
being a toy in that box–no usable hands.

Once, as a boy, I was so bored I left the only room
where anyone
was talking, and hummed a song that sounded
like boredom. I’ll never forget that.