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31 Jul 2016
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My Bad Poetry #21
I planned a documentary about your regrets
but the interview subjects besieged me
until I found a culvert with an apathetic dog.
Glum five hour talks left me Scotch-thirsty.
The brass spittoons were irrelevant and
the fictional sheriffs bothered me less
than the obtuse pantaloons.
Somewhere a forensic submarine
made an expedition into a foreign malcontent’s
residue of Francophilia.
It was just like watching a cardboard crepe
sink into the empty tub, analyzing your
claustrophobic row of decisions.
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