Mystified by the substance
of a wasted day, I make my merry way
through a mass of ennui
with only a stomach ulcer for company.
My head is thick with some haze or other,
a blue haze or a green haze,
that dances complicated arabesques
I don’t feel equipped to describe.
I scribble a ditty with my tongue
to the roof of my mouth
for later use or to forget.
These days I find forgetting
comes more naturally, it’s almost
like a talent I’ve spent my life perfecting,
and my only real talent at that.
Now if only it could pay the bills…

-r. miller


One thought on “Forgetting

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