But Are We Any Different?

Fight the interior. The memo
read south. No more complex
than a mouthful of gauze.
The long pause that followed
encased us like a museum display,
but we played on,
carrying minor key tunes
in wistful little bundles.

The notes seemed to point
the way to a more stable
way of living. But we were
so fucking reactionary,
we’d nary an impulse
for forward thinking.
We left the air stinking
like a sarcophagus whenever

we exhaled. You know the tale.
Over cheap ale and cigarettes,
we meted out our disapproval,
cast a net over our better sense,
watched it sincerely try
to wriggle free just for the fun of it.
We had a way of getting things done,
a way that today makes me

question my worth. It was the birth
of something, that’s for certain.
A birth whose aftermath
we’re still coping with.

-r. miller

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