For Kacey and Chris

Frustration is a kind of lint.
I believe I have more of it
than most; maybe I carry it well
all spooled up inside my navel
ready for the neighbor in the
elevator to say you look like
you got it all together so I can
let go and spin her a mummy.

It’s funny how some people
carry this lint on their heads
as if it won’t be noticed
or stuff and puff up their chests
as if it were something to strut
around. It is not something
to cherish or protect: Better
to dismember all together.

 

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Poet’s Notes

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The original draft for this poem:

new doc 63_1

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