I am writing one poem repeatedly.
I am a record album,
my scratched & skipping lyrics
caught
in recycled verse
in pecking questions that beg
of the tired man at the corner holding cardboard:
Please Help
I cast hopes as pennies
camouflaged in bronze canyons;
I make Declarations of Importance:
I the Ego,
hereby puffed and cracked and
simultaneously, numb,
demand ancient answers, ever un-coming.
I will write one poem repeatedly
until I stop
writing one poem repeatedly.
I am writing one poem repeatedly.
It is the only poem there is
and to write it is the only thing to do.
I am blocking the aisle at the grocery store.
My car has
stalled
in the middle of the intersection.
I am letting my hair go gray,
and there is no makeup on my face.
I say “I’m sorry” a hundred times a day.
I am a record album,
scratched & skipping sotto voce screaming
in a whisper.
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