grateful for poetry
Exultant, drunk with the little victories:
remembering to bring a homemade muffin
only slightly less glorious than right out of the oven,
flashing my usually-cloistered bus pass
to prove my city citizenship,
consolidating paper trails
into one gleaming paper superhighway.
remembering to bring a homemade muffin
only slightly less glorious than right out of the oven,
flashing my usually-cloistered bus pass
to prove my city citizenship,
consolidating paper trails
into one gleaming paper superhighway.
The hangover is quick, severe.
Blurry comes into focus with a “fuck you bitch”
and I am at work. Because this is how it is
in the building of books and lost people.
We who work here are the serfs,
and all the jesters are kings.
Blurry comes into focus with a “fuck you bitch”
and I am at work. Because this is how it is
in the building of books and lost people.
We who work here are the serfs,
and all the jesters are kings.
— Halsted M. Bernard
(This entry is part of one month of gratitude.)
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