Easton
D. Michael McNamara
I figure somewhere
on my person
there has to be comfort:
a trace of dignity,
a stab at humour,
a sliver of rationality,
or maybe some plain
generic common sense.
It often turns this way,
too much so.
I search in the orifice
of my sacrament
and every goddamn time
I reveal the leaf
of disappointed.
This is discontentment.
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