Number 5

If I could curtail the cacophony in my head and somehow store
each agony in a jar, can them, let them slumber in the basement

while snow sedated the green grass, we could eat from sealed glass
canisters all winter and never wonder whether the withered crops

would return in spring. We could grow fat on the fertile jelly
of my worst tendencies. We could grow lazy on my lack
of industry. We could dine of the fine and acerbic wit

of my anger, my lashing out impulses. And I would
sleep-in long enough to be well rested and greet

the afternoon sun with a dry yawn, containing
nothing but my most lovely, fruitful musings.



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

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