There's garbage everywhere & we
must protect it from the intake
in our dungaree pants & khaki
polyesters & these obnoxious
cephalopod-like helmets.
That's not a metaphor but should be.
We have no time to be figurative.
The past approaches, honed in on our tendons.
*
Back for a limited time! It's me.
On some horizon, the heart makes
a series of tactically sound left
turns, so, you know,
a circumnavigation of a slow
but yearning apathy.
These airplanes make me itchy
& the tarmac is a placeholder
not just for a hundred thousand tons
of metal but for all these dots,
these points on a line we call
people. You've rendered my life
in two dimensions & neither one
flatters my figure. I see a washer
on the ground, I pick it up.
Into my pocket for good luck.
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