Monday, April 15, 2013

After Breakfast

I have washed your dish
for the last time, I suspect
as I put it in
the rack, dripping on
the crusty drainboard (I should
scrub the board as well).
I sense the front door
quietly closing at just
this strange damp moment.

Picking up the pan,
I start to scrub you away,
scrub away the shape
of things as they were.
This would go better with more
elan, I suppose.
Later, I work up
yet another goddam speech
to give the lost boys.

April 15, 2013 3:53 PM

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The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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