There’s a horrid logic
underlying the squall
that liberates the sinews
from the skeleton,
a logic that I am made
all to aware of when I turn
to confront the medicine
cabinet as it implements
its pogrom of influenza.
Or, as it matter of factly states,
the only true path to purification.
I see, however, disguised within
its dastardly alphabet,
a manifesto of cultural
sterilization, a ruckus
of limp-dicked pole vaulters
in a sphincter of obeisance
with neck ties like expletives
binding their wrists.
A stare down results,
between the medicine cabinet
and me, and at first it appears
that there will be no clear victory
in this contest, just a fractured
portrait mixing with blood
on the ground.
My stuttering knuckles
confirm my suspicions,
even though I do realize
it’s simply of matter
of slipping on a new zip code
and walking away.

-r. miller


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