No not the lint or residue stuffed twixt
joints or underneath a rickety nail,
nor yet the crafty rock-climbing techniques
steadying ascension. It’s what brings wails
from our mouths when digiti minimi,
at innocent steady speed, brashly meet
a bedroom bureau’s unmovable feet.
Drawers quickly become the enemy,
though they’ve so often served—faithful keepers
of intimate apparel. Yet our rash
motion suddenly sweeps us to weepers,
our literate language turning to trash.
I feel your horrid pain, wish you luck, or
if you wish, will happily bring succor.
Roger
April 12, 2011
