Slamming my head against a couch
Tuned too tight.
In this contortion show,
I play my part and you play yours.
And as the fumes from your projects
Come in through the door,
I close my eyes,
A sad excuse for what I've realized:
I'm back at square one,
Still dizzy from the hit
Of the butt of your gun
Because you knew that pulling the trigger
Would make me see things
A little
Clearer.
...But instead I retreat,
Typing notes on my phone
So get out the tiller
Because I'm coming home.
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