It is difficult to breathe here.
There is enough starch on these
button-ups to intoxicate a slew
of minors--starching shirts:
graffiti for white collars.
The traffic bows and weaves
like a terrific ivy vine
not sensitive to wind.
I wake up earlier than God.
Something quivers by
the paper shredder. An old
young self that nods and wearies
and frets. Too afraid to speak.
My prison is full of doors.
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