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while my son is at the computer

i step outside and piss

lazy yellow streams

fumbling a cigarette while

the rain parts my hair.

the rain is coming through holes

torn in that new sunroom we got.

my son’s name is epistle.

he always qualifies for track.

he never runs track.

i have this nervous energy in me

hissing and clouding like

the defroster i said i’d fix.

i don’t know anything about me.

checking the news everyday

makes me feel something.