June 14

First Poem

That first poem hung on my wall,
relic of a craft store, yard sale,
or Sears catalog, dark wood

against light, blue lasso
twisting over head
of a cowboy.

What it said
has long since shed
its place in my memory

along with any warm feeling
for a family tied up in their own
unmaking, but the rounded edges

of wood, the calligraphy of letters
its omniscient indent, its height
come back to me each time

in great joy and sadness
while pounding keys
to say something



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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