scuff

Sometimes my poetry
seems so base
it’s a wonder I put it out there
like air
flecked with allergens
to sicken those who breathe it.

It’s not the elevated voice
I thought “poets” used
(who keep me writing)–
but it’s dirt, debris,
the wreckage of
weak living–
mess-ups, mishaps–
instead.
It’s words out-of-place
stuck here–
together–
where they grope–
grasp–
at making sense
and making amends
for me

but are honest enough
to admit they’re just
a scuff on the floor.

dedicated to M
Thanks, chica.

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    • Luke
    • October 13th, 2006

    My newsreader downloaded your “the object of the work” post before you removed it, so I’m not sure if I was “supposed” to see that or not. I did.

    Thank you. It’s a side that I, as a single, don’t get to hear very often. The side of reality is a side most people don’t like to share. Thanks for at least thinking about sharing it. 🙂

    • M
    • October 16th, 2006

    Thank YOU, beautiful.

    Chica. Everybody say, “Woohoo!” And I’m getting ansty for that little boy! 😉

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