It’s 7:17 am

It’s 7:17 am.
I’m on thyroid with a 5-htp hangover.
I remember that I am full of mistrust
disappointment and heartbreak
and I hate living alone. The cats
are eating stinky cat food. Cars
whoosh along the snowy ocean
of the parkway. My sacrum is out
again, the hamper is full of laundry,
my bags are still packed, everything
needs cleaning. Not just blackbirds
but also turtledoves fall out of the
sky. Despite my capacious
curiosities, I understand
absolutely nothing. Men
are about the weirdest things
I can think of. This
is lineated, but not
a poem: just to be

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