The sun blinding my eyes during a commute.
Foul bleu cheese crumbled all over my salad,
when I specifically requested it not be there,
rendering it inedible.
(Bleu cheese—the food for people who said,
“Hey, this isn’t nearly moldy enough!”)
Mysterious bruises on my thighs,
even though I know I’m constantly running
into the corners of tables and chairs
and open car doors
because I’m like a cat that’s lost its whiskers.
Mosquito bites on the top of my feet,
screaming to be scratched, but I know that they’ll bleed.
Doctor’s appointments, which feel more invasive
the older I get.
and since I was raised Roman Catholic,
I feel guilty about most everything.
And if you engage with Twitter or Facebook,
someone is always ready to make you feel guilty.
Good friends announcing a permanent move
far, far away
in a happy voice, like it’s a good thing.
Finding the faults in a person I admire,
realizing he’s more or less like anyone else.
Feeling like I’m missing out on summer
as I nap the day away.
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