This won’t matter in a minute.
Conversely, this will matter
more than anything. It all depends
on what shape the minute takes.
Baked disputes dispense
the ordered flux.
Truly, we’re in the lap of luxury,
only our hands are tied,
our mouths filled with soap.
Redemption two-steps off-camera
and reenters in a flowery haze,
crooked shoulders and everything.
What’s that in its teeth?
the narrator wonders.
But we recognize our loose ends
and blunders when we see ’em.
At any rate, the melody burning
in my head just won’t let up,
and I can’t seem to get
my feels straight.
-r. miller
1.25.21
Published
*Insert Propaganda Here* 