In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Object of My Dejection.”

Failed spoken
like snowflakes drowned in piss,
each passing car that throws puddles at the folks
who are making signs to stay alive

knows it.

Your story, your reflection
the object of your dejection
is little more than the subject
of your sorrows,

Those whose pain tragically borrows
from the sacks of trick-or-treaters

and the dripping egg-beaters
of housewives, failing to feel less than perfect.

We are all looking at the lacking surface

and wondering when we will give our troubles
a Name
a Face
a Color

or Place

To save us in our penultimate hour.


Talk at me while I eat

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