It's mid- August.
Every man I know
is sorting something out
rolling around an idea -
not talking
lost in some sort of distress.
It must be something
about the change of season
or a lack thereof
attempting to match
mis-matched socks
or roll pennies into
brown parchment tubes
working on panicking
when they should be
arranging a rendez-vouz
that has nothing to do
with anything other than
last spring.
There has to be
more than this early
September -
there has to be
more than this.
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