Smearing Mud

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I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you
It would be about a 2004 Windows computer,
Anxious fingers gliding across jittery keys, the
Screen smiling and winking, and
about indoor mini golf, shining brightly in
the dark, enough to see your simple
polo shirt as opposed to speech tournaments
where your two year old suit coat seemed snug
but your fit smile would distract, the
balls rolling, and the awkward chill
of chocolate and vanilla shakes—it would
be about smearing mud on an
innocent white table cloth
sitting silently in a Steak & Shake
and multiple bottles of Cheer that
will never fully get rid of the stain





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