today in a box that got wet yesterday
melting around me in confusion
and the dank smell of mildew
adding to disenchantment
with the cue ball's orbit
the clip of the hoof
and its clop, the circular way
we wind our plastic lines
on the unsprung mandrel
the horse is a loser, face it,
a sawbuck on number twenty
double down, politics is no game
for the weak at heart, or in the knees.
spread a little smell of rose
walk by the long picket fence
where the flowers grow
don't ask how they got there
the gardens of old people
are best because it takes so long
to get everything just right.
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