Through doors that open

On my mother’s socks

I see a crumpled Kleenex

Certainly one of many used

In the patient act of

Blowing or wiping.

A stray now,

Displaced from the plastic pail

Which holds the residue of

Surplus tossings through a

Stalactite of socks.


Our mornings arise

From a myth of

Pancakes and perfumes.


We halt our impressions

By the side of the sink.

How easy it is

To flush and forget.


Ted Goodell




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