Empty Wastebasket (Fragments)
The boxer is the poet of the flesh.
Home is my mother’s voice.
Words marinate in this sweet air.
Tangle up with me like bramble. I leave marks.
Neighbors idling at property lines, smiling, bags of dogshit swinging like scrotums.
Laugh at the storm while preparing for it.
The poet is the boxer of the soul.
Leave nothing behind but a scent people want to keep.
3 thoughts on "Empty Wastebasket (Fragments)"
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At this point, this is one of my favorite poems. Thank you. ?
very nice!
Oh,I love this one. So many great lines and images, and a moment of hilarity in the middle. Thank you!