Minute Rice

I guess minute quinoa, actually.
I don’t know how many syllables that
words is, so don’t bother sifting through the
lines in hopes of finding some deep-seated
secret message in this particular
piece. I forgot what I wanted to write
about, fuck. Now I’ll spend the rest of the
poem stalling until I ultimately
recall what this scribbling was all for.
If I really wanted to be a douche—
I do—I’d wait until the absolute
last line to unveil some meaningless phrase
or word, something absurd, like mittens, or
minute rice, pretend it was so artsy.

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