Poem : Routine

Bill felt he was born for this. Eating lunch as he watched numbers scroll a board, sift through e-mails, organize filing cabinets. Each day itemized by activity. Carefully scheduled and planned. On Fridays, he’d wear his dress down tie and have obligatory post work drinks.

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Poem : Stuffed

You plug ears with cotton
nod in time to lip movements
and promise moonbeams to the sun.

Your kind trade player card lives
with mates in white suits
saying yes over and over

when you really mean no.

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