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Certainty was what drew you up,

left you here

uncertain as ever.

Skewered lives and lines,

hacks who fall in love with the wrong person

and drink too much about it

too.

That’s us.

And pleasing as a touch to a never-touched swig seems,

drained

we get odd.

Sure’s just another no

bound by absolutes we’ll never tug behind us.

Distance rings inside the coffee mug:

distinct scars never scrubbed away

to make way for casted fixtures of now.

Turns even to battle lost

as legs preside over the kitchenette’s keeping.

Pucker up with your eyes drawn,

Kentucky Rain.

We’re just getting finished,

and the moon’s the color of a muskrat.

I know. I know.

I can be quite a handful.

I have my own certain tediousness,

cautious habits that know no cure,

but well’s a known that still presumes

earlier versions of myself have hit the showers.

Besides,

recovery is not a permanent thing;

and me

I still remember every detail

of every restroom and train car

I’ve ever danced in

along the way.

The only writer who matters

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