Clean the Closet on Non-Working Day
“Is it so stupid typing barcode numbers?”
I said when I vacuumed.
I want to play Debussy
in the city hall of an emerald city,
but my 220 lb butt is filled with filtered
office water; though I try not to snack
on the peanuts at my desk. I toss
torn black stockings. Fifteen
jeans are on a shelf and I cannot
fit in them. I am extremely jealous
of the sinking woman who drowned
after she sang a love song. She was opera-fat but
beautiful in the winter lake. Yet,
I have not recognized her loneliness
and vexation of not being a wife.
“Still vacuuming?” you looked into the closet.
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