Wordsmith
poetry
Showing posts with label
bug coffee
.
Show all posts
Showing posts with label
bug coffee
.
Show all posts
Friday, August 22, 2008
Nothing Fits
Nothing fits.
I swallow.
Coffee
like it is a cure.
I wade in you.
Wait for
forever,
the number
printed on my ticket.
They just called
“28.”
And coffee gives me jitters.
(Bug.)
I tap all thirty toes.
Or they are fingers.
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