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Poetry

Bait and Switch Rhizomes

Dean Brink

Homer’s boss runs the reactor keeping us busy
while hiding hands one at a time in a washing motion,
a Dali machining into the firmament of landscape,
a slow, frazzled battle sleepwalked out of body.
Living gets old and lightheaded,
be the first to wave the white flag
boys off to compensate for better days and cheaper stuff.
Meanwhile, hunters fan out for greener pastures
in the circling food chain, and the sun
makes its getaway in the steady millions of miles.

The sawing by the café doesn’t bother me
as long as they are replacing rotted ties
on the public walk by the river.
I’m allergic to Genesis and cigarettes,
but they have a database I’ve always dreamt of.
I feel at home as long as tea is allowed.
Ongoing yard sales only go so far
and you turn to burning legs of tables
to roast marshmallows and other
comfort foods that are fun to say:
pork chops and applesauce, in the morning couscous.

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