Op Note XXVIII
Well there comes a time when you have to just cut it all out. All the grit and gristle. The uncooked fat. The bad dad. The bad husband. Bad son. That’s me. Never mastered any of it. Time for a little chop chop. Terrible poet so this will be the last one. All the others I’ll change author status to anonymous. Too embarrassing. Can’t run anymore, ankles breaking like balsa sticks. Cut the gym membership card in half. Burned out surgeon. Give it a rest. A nest of gray on my chest at the barber shop. Bad drinker. Bad tipper. Bad road trip companion. Bad friend. Bad at golf. All the balls in the pond. Terrible taste in fashion. Button down collars fraying. Ridiculous pants. Holes in the heels of all of my socks. Clean it all out. Make piles for pyres. Rip up the carpet. Smash all the plates. Hire someone to pack it all away in crates. What’s left? Nothing worth mentioning. Just this scrunched face in the mirror shaking slowly left to right, right to left. Even when the head is still.
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