How It Is Broken

 

my hands still smelling of garlic,
I leave early, walking uncertain
on my own two feet

I imagine birds picking at the suet
somewhere else, on a street with
just houses, no bodegas to buy from,
no way for you to punch me in the
mouth with whiskey

ears poking out of our matching hat
I suffer myself as I skate by accident
on the sidewalk past others, undead,
and yet they move with ease

fool half-expects you to run out after
me and apologize for what I never
told you

I have played my hand;
I have sung enough

while the ground begins to thaw
I am just starting to freeze

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