Brandishing tin weapons with dull points
Spoons or knitting needles
To poke the truths from holes
In the strainer recently emptied of macaroni
Or maybe the conversations in bed at night
Requesting a new game every time we hypothesize
Out of hypocrisy
And know we'll lose
Scalded by false pretenses with true postenses
Dropped on the floor, splattered on the wall
Sticking because they're done
Just right
Scalded by steam from the smallest pot I own,
With no handle
Convinced it won't hinder me, ignore the sting
Accept the stink of your garbage disposal words
All wrong
We're not having dinner tonight
Or maybe ever again
March, 2001
Thursday, March 1, 2001
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