Poem, “Morning Chatter”

Some marching-band cadence
In your voice this morning,
Candied, like
A fresh apple,

Jaunting talk, really,
Of tasks to be done
From scraps of
Stainless papers
On a refrigerator door,

Or jobs completed,
Not curfewed, but
Cashiered, coffined,
Into the glazed silence
Of a dead grandfather's
Gray eyes

 

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