Frying Pan

Old Nantucket was a mighty man, washed
his face in a something that isn’t a
frying pan, because that’s how poetry
works, right? So long as I’m clever, no one
will notice I have nothing important
to say. I’m doing it right now. Although
it also works the other way: if I’m
obscurely emotional, vividly
reliving some insipid childhood
incident, nostalgic images thrown
in with poignant emotional roughage,
no one will notice I’m dumb as a brick,
shallower than a bathroom floor puddle
of late night sick, trying to make it stick.

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