I blew it, said Stephanie,
picking Weetabix clods from her hair
in the light of the burning bureau
as the cat smoked.
I should have listened, she said,
as the threads of her lawn unknitted
and the house found a new equilibrium
Of all the people, she said,
to be trusted with this decision!
The crust shrugged and heaved.
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Maybe it’s the dim midwinter light, but January seems to be dedicated to taking a rather harsh view of ourselves. In reality, most of us are already doing our best with a lot, and need to be taking on not more, but less.
Well, at least until cloning machines are up and running.
I am scaling a mossy wall
and playing the bagpipes.
[On distant asphalt, a
Before I know it, it’s January 1st.
“I will now also paint
the wall as I climb!” I proclaim.
[My bagpipes flail
like a spent lung.]
The wall giggles.
“You should have just vowed
to grow more hands,” it says.
[I kick the wall.
Descent is rapid.
Cancel the paintbrushes.]
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