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FixedInto disrepair, I will things that work,
Instead choosing to focus on stuck keys
Which stick, in locks licked with black
paint too thick, much like windows
Which don't open in my bedroom
With a fresh gasp and a sting of Autumn rain.
I could fix them with a knife,
Down in the whitewashed crevice,
If I could spare the cutlery.
As it is I'm eating pasta with a spoon.
It doesn't taste any better, but
Doesn't taste any worse, either.
When all clocks read time differently,
Whole days are misplaced in the hallway
Between bed, bath and beyond –
Which invariably reveals itself to be nothing
More majestic than the sticky surfaced kitchen.
Maybe one day I'll find the minutes lost
Down the back of the sofa with the awkward
But until then tomorrow will continue
To hold as much meaning as a word
Repeated ad infinitum
Ad infinitum, ad infinitum.
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