I don’t want to talk about it.
The phone does not ring.
Mail is piled up on the table.
I don’t open it. I don’t want
to talk about it. I pass
through my days, oblivious,
caught between that dream
and this one. I don’t want to
talk about it. I’m a fly, snared
in a web of my own making.
I don’t answer the phone. Mail
piles up on the table. I don’t
want to talk about it. “If you
were a hallway, hungry mice
couldn’t fit through it.” Don’t.
I don’t want to talk about it.
--
sharon brogan
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