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Jonesing it isn’t the best way to go
he thinks solemnly while testing the tap
for cold, not hot
finds himself enveloped in tepid which wouldn’t be so bad
if he’d had the time to spare

Joshing it works
by virtue of virtue and for some reason
he likes the thought but it fades as sun-bleached things do

Naming it is useless today even with an “ing” or an I-N-G
haphazardly applied to the end as though the ending makes any sense of
the beginning

My mother gave me pictures of her
and her son
both dead

We all die sooner or later

No one comes into the world
thinking she will suffer a lingering, painful death
or that he will die of a ruptured ulcer

We all die quickly or slowly

We all die of trivial things
which is not supposed to happen
or so our rebellious minds wail

She gave me pictures
of a dead woman and her dead son
They are still in the envelope
what’s left of a dead woman and her son

Where to bury the bodies
Where to put the ashes

SOB with me

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