Two stamps, three bills
my story doesn't fit
like a glove left behind
on the bus
wary of the last guy
at the last stop, still
angry fist with bell
thumb at Brighton ski shop
filled with bikes on sale
much weather, fewer words
"We need to get serious
about measurement."
dripping...
"You are not fat."
still I don't care
what we get from there
just how we order
for me—
I finger the heart
splat in the dust
separately wonder
about the soft wine sweater—
"What if it spills?"
It is right that he too should have his little chronicle, his memories,
his reason, and be able to recognize the good in the bad, the bad in the
worst, and so grow gently old all down the unchanging days and die one
day like any other day, only shorter.
-- Samuel Beckett, "Malone Dies"
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