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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