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Poplar bluffs

by Daniel Peterson

Poplar bluffs
on the hill you’re climbing
past eight years, you sit;
past eight years, you watch;
and try.

Four doors open up,
and four more shut.
Loosely tooth, now,
it hangs on the thread of a hinge,
all gummed-up.
It’s turning on
an octagon knob,
a crystal fit, a close calamity.

Floor boards are shored up;
four more go fucked.
Tilting’s the way the rolls now
have ended up on you.

The counters and the tabletops,
dressers and dresses collude
to escape the walls
of eight-years-try
and out into the night

you never feared to spend alone,
and never cared to lie
to get her
face to face; or back to back,
as the case may be.
They were more just adjustments made
than saves saved,
anyway.

The last stall on your climb
had a door and a stand-on wave maker
casting doubts through particle board,
the fear of cheating spits, tongue-lined lies
through tongue-lashed walls, and it all
came splashing down.

And it all came tumbling out,
the water that ruined
the slats that in solitude now lie,
telling a return to carefree days;
of eight years now gone by.

12/30/2006

Posted on 01/09/2007
Copyright © 2024 Daniel Peterson

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