Day 656 April 19, 2022
Rendered
Every day,
the grocery store poet said to me.
Every day I write my list of things to cross off.
Every day,
said the car mechanic poet.
Every day I shape letters out of oil stains on concrete,
on coveralls,
on receipts for services rendered.
Every day,
the dog walker poet said to me.
Every day I pick up shit in my bare hands.
I looked at her with sad eyes.
The day was wilting slowly,
like it was uncertain of the time.
I could smell someone smoking a cigarette
out behind the cafeteria.
A large military cargo plane pushed its way
through a slow sky.
But I,
said the dog walking poet,
was the first one to hear the peepers.
I could taste the air like a worm tastes the earth.
Place it on me, the dog walking poet said.
And I placed the fanged spider upon her curled pate.
You could do worse than writing poems about dog excrement,
she said.
I thought I should call a financial planner.
My metal tool shed is slowly disassembling itself.
A poem, she said, could be about compost.
All the things you did not eat that day.
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