19.6.7 (Drunken Resentment I)
I cannot wait for the day,
years from now, that the last
molecule of spices we bought
together, has seasoned their final dish;
then I can scrape those stragling
remainders, off the plate
and into the trash.
Until then, I cannot afford
to throw those jars away.
2 thoughts on "19.6.7 (Drunken Resentment I)"
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It’s good to read your poetry, man.
Love this. It’s the little things.