Auto-complete commits to my mistakes

(my mom becomes a mountain). One minute’s

effort on the internet fails to explain

how white words were etched

into old photographs. I’ve no third thing.


Reading this to myself I convince myself

this is poetry (I have a lilt). Having misread

a text from a friend about another friend

and how things went, I lost it—yowling in

the basement about commitment


I assumed the worst. I ignore my mother

and she has to text my wife. There are photos

of my son’s namesake’s wedding and I

made no comment to date. What now?

Rush to do better? Yah, I guess so.


I open Facebook again with empty hope.




Props to jesslyn “we can’t see if the foundation is cracked” delia for getting me all parenthetical. She too is writing a poem-a-day for National Poetry Month, so follow her too.


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