inside a house
every word then every single word then

the other way

You’d like me to set The Modern off
        over there beside the ruined jeans you
                made me wash too many times when we
were apartments together back then.
        The Modern would appreciate a break
                for insight, purposeful clarity, for steel
girders and roses, even. Bread for the hungry.
        We’ll sort an array of lunch food, ordinary
                contemporary bologna, cheeses swiss and
cheddar. Dreams will come once The Modern’s been
        subdued and the work’s been done to uninvite
                its grimy kids from our 50th anniversary.
Type type thunk on the Smith-Corona.
        You can say it’s not old as a path. But it’s
                 that longing, just back from a long white nap.


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