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David Wright
A Selfish Sonnet of Thanksgiving
A cluttered, quiet home, paper stacked high On every horizontal plane or chair. A child whose greatest trial is her hair, Tangled without mercy, every day. Why Not sing slight psalms of gratitude when light Pours onto hardwood floors? Or when coffee Scents the middle of the day? I can see From this window twenty sturdy, square white Homes where grief arrives at night on colored Screens that one deft finger can transform to Happiness with a click. I say thank you These jeans pockets hold just four creased dollars, And when my wife comes through the kitchen door We argue about laundry and not war
The Editor Falls Behind
In the wastebasket, beneath tissues and apple cores you'll find the ends of poems, every sort the final five syllables of haiku (always a stone, a sky, some grass); the back half of a sonnet's closing couplet, rhyming with nothing; an epiphany spun from deep image, lying there next to an empty advil bottle, never able to assert how the poet's private loves must matter to us all. Dump the plastic wastebasket on your desk and sort through the poem butts and you might piece together one good smoking poem, one set of lines to end all lines.
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