The halls are bright.
Like hospitals.
Like morgues.
Like bathroom walls.
We are a grid of scribblers.
Regurgitation and frantic anticipation in liquid form
Melting over the chair onto the page
Onto the antique table.
Never does the silence come,
Ever sounding of shuffling,
Scratching,
Sickening,
Paper sliding.
And the moment of momentary halt in movement
has the hand jerking to the next minute
The knowledge that we fail to program into our system
sets off bombs in our family letter boxes.
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