Never leave home,
never walk out the door
without patting the pockets.
Must hear the reassuring rattle
of little wood
against little wood.
Red nubs forward,
blacks back.
A wallet’s handy,
coins, keys
but without matches,
you’re still undressed,
not ready
to take on the world.
For eight years,
I lived like this,
conscripted
to ignition,
following the Drum,
Tally Ho ...
bw
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