I take comfort in the dinged up
in dented discarded stuff
that nobody seems to want
chucked into a bin in the
very back of the supermarket
or set on the curb or stoop
wearing a forlorn note.

They are always useable
never beyond hope
and unpretentious.
They want for attention
and do not find desperation
to be a foreign matter
as the perfect always do.

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Poet’s Notes:

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