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Sometimes late night happens in a year. I even got home kinda early tonight, but the a former student and always kiddo called in crisis, and it got late.

Oh, Good.

I think I quelled things, but I can never know for sure. Let’s imagine, you and I, back on two years ago, when I tried, successfully, to convince HP to have a third child before my surgeries. As soon as he said his reluctant approval the desire clouded over like the clouds up in here, like the uncooperative clouds and moon midst the meteors,

intractable in his facial, and so we said

there are 56 or so of them, and sometimes they stick,

up in

in our burnt offerings, in our sacrifices and scapegoats, in our tributes and elegies, get lodged up in our throats, here in the raw esophogi rest the children we speak for, they live in our throats and get stuck there when they leave too soon, here, now, I give you their voices, the ones of always and of wise.


Oh, Good, Wednedays, which mean Thursdays, which mean vacation. Nite, poem-peeps.