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Click hereI shuffle down the street
in order to keep from limping,
but it never works. Too much
clutter on the sidewalk, and I'm
not taking a chance on the gutter.
Not any more.
I spent too many days, even more
nights, clutching Dr Mad-Dog to
my chest and indulging in my own
brand of brown paper therapy after
the Peroxide Princess sent me to
the curb. But I got up, just like
I used to get up every time she
wanted me to. Morning, noon,
middle of the god-damn night,
Ain't my fault it had a hole, but
can't say anything but, "Here's
your check. How's she doing?"
This is a stellar little portrait. Your sense of phrase and rhythm is damn fine, and I like what a distinct voice you have. Voice is everything, really.
GREAT POEM! Love this: clutching Dr Mad-Dog to/my chest and indulging in my own/brand of brown paper therapy after/the Peroxide Princess sent me to the curb
I love the metaphors ("brown paper therapy" "Peroxide Princess") and the ending really pulls the poem together and explains the title. Wonderful to see you poeming here again! :-)
Recommended in today's New Poems reviews.