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It’s not a new morning, it’s another morning.
My neighbor likes to play music while working
in the yard. I’m just grateful for an hour
of sunlight after we built the prison but not
the keys, cozied up to the warden, escaping
from here to here.
We paint smiley faces on Pop-Tarts for greatness.
I can’t read the fine print, but that’s okay
since we’re already screwed. The film adaptation
comes next, yet things always feel better
at the movies. Just don’t reach over the counter—
that’s where we keep the cash and guns.
My challenge is to put it into couplets. First,
I gotta get this tooth fixed, then assess
any damage after sneezing on the machines.
Who has an ear for ghosts? Beneath everything
is a crunching sound, and the next thing
to lose is our jobs.
Nickname’s Zippy, sir. Go ahead and lower
a curtain on the speaker. I won’t miss the moral.
Some crowd control is in your face,
and some is deeply hidden. You might say
the same thing about Sea World, except to me
the whole place smells like blue.
Geese fly north through the valley, but I still worry
about emo. Actually, I worry about you.
What are the daybreak passages? The bell’s success
is its emptiness—that’s what makes it ring,
as we dream of a life from below, filling
the bowl with Chex Mix for the party.
The treatment of monuments is to destroy them,
lining up palm trees past the horizon.
I can sit still for almost twenty minutes, except
when you’re around. Then it’s whatever is good
for the gander. My heart a spitting image.
Poetry sometimes says what it means.
Alan Gilbert is the author of two books of poetry, Late in the Antenna Fields and The Treatment of Monuments, as well as a collection of essays, articles, and reviews entitled Another Future: Poetry and Art in a Postmodern Twilight.
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