Butter side down days

Some days everything I touch, I drop

onto a floor that’s not been mopped in weeks.

The words that yesterday flowed free today are stopped.

And I want to stop too, myself, and sleep.

This poem is the crust, these words I utter

The last scraping from the jar of peanut butter.

I see them slip, I try to catch, I miss them.

A bit of dirt is good for the immune system.

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2 thoughts on “Butter side down days

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