For ages all of us have got the story wrong.
There's something wrong with me. I've
it's the way I'm holding it, the way it's sharp.
was our children, teenage musicians
can while standing still and eating
as a virus, we all said yes when asked to lift
to snap their black-clad likeness before a pre-
but it's horrible too and wrong how
are the family funerals, the messy reunions?
we hum with self-satisfaction we rub
we sing without mess or connection.
or desserts but didn't specify a ratio
pies go on and on about October
For ages all of have got the story wrong,
to construct tales of success over
good work and then resting, tired to the bone.
when I'm alone I am large and when together
I swell like a blister when I rub up against
Without mess or connection we drive away
and more than we want. Uneaten desserts
This rant springs from an occasional severe allergic reaction to small-talk, which alternates with a delight in sitting with people talking about the names for different shades of brown. I also compulsively over-bake.